Categories
Life

Cereal And Life

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?

Life. How it has me in awe.

Over and over, again.

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Categories
Poetry

Feel

Some days,

I can’t be here for you.

Some days

I need you,

to hold my softness

and let me fall.

It is a beautiful drift of snow

that feathers the earth of me.

A gentle spring breeze

beyond the strength I’ve tried so hard to be.

And I lay me down to feel it all.

I lay me down to feel it all.

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Categories
Poetry

One Small Me

If I am not her,

that good and lovely girl in a box,

who am I?

Now that this body is alive

with the energy of all of life,

who am I?

I believe this,

but I believe the opposite of this, too.

I love you desperately,

I hate you just as achingly.

Both can exist within, but how?

But how?

I am bursting fire,

I am calm ocean blue.

I do not understand, and I understand entirely.

For one small me,

these feelings are large.

Too large for me to carry

alone.

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Categories
Poetry

The Eyes Of Others

She is the golden skin

by lamplight.

She is not the beauty

they see

in her face,

her eyes,

her hair.

She is glorious

alone.

Without the eyes of others.

Categories
Life

Creative, Loving,Life

I’m very aware of the rich soil of this place. How I am peeking through the soft earth, unravelling beautifully. How I am fully becoming myself.

Over these past few weeks, I’ve been allowing myself to be as I am, just watching the world go by. Watching all the expectations I had for my life and my dreams fall apart, so sweetly.

I am here to create and to love.

That is all.

It seems that, for most of my life, although I have been creating, although I have been loving…I have been looking to frame this creativity and love within an identity. Within a ‘reason’. For example: I must write a book in order to write legitimately, to be accepted under the culturally approved model of what a writer/creator must wish to strive for.

But I don’t wish to strive for this. Although it would be lovely to hold a book of my heart in my very own hands, I am so fulfilled by life that it truly does not feel necessary, to me.

I only wish to create. To be utterly fulfilled by this most beautiful connection with myself and the people I write for.

How or where my creativity (my essence) finds these people has become unimportant to me. I trust my words and heart will find home, effortlessly. I know this logic might make no sense to some, but for me, to flow through life feels like the only right way.

I never had to write a book to be a writer. I never had to be ‘a writer’.

I only had to be my wind.

Living. Creating. Loving.

Because this is my life.

This is my creative, loving life.

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Categories
Life

Life Beyond

I know when I am talking to a persons soul.

There is no feeling wider, deeper, more beautiful than to sit beside a friend and know them beyond their human story.

The vastness of them.

The invisible wonder; felt, yet unseen.

No feeling I’d rather choose. No place I’d rather be.

I try not to reject the aspects of humanity that never can reach the boundless home our spirits connect in: the place I find the shine in peoples eyes.

But how could life without that shine ever compare to the deep blue sea of a wide open soul?

I am addicted to my souls home.

I miss it, and my soul people, when I am not there.

Life is beyond anything I could ever think to complain about, though.

Life is beyond anything I could ever think.

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Categories
Writing

Purpose

I’ve tried all the angles. I’ve felt all the rights and wrongs about what they say a writer should do, should be, should want…but I’m not like them.

I want barely any of what they tell me I should want.

To write from my heart, that is what I want.

To touch other hearts, I want that, too.

To shine so that others might know what it is like to shine on the other end of my words: I want that, more than anything else. Life is for dreaming and being the sweet dreams that we are.

I’ve tried to write for money: it leaves me empty.

I’ve tried to write any old thing: it leaves me tired, frustrated, hungry.

To share the depths of my soul is what I am here to do.

To connect with others at the level of the heart.

I want that.

I want that.

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Categories
Poetry

Only And Always

The wind cannot be caught.

It cannot be moulded to perfection,

scraped and gutted

and made to be something other than

what it is.

The wind is only, and always, the wind.

And you

are only

and always

you.

Flow as you will.

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Categories
Poetry

Like I am

Deep within my heart

there is a river, raging on.

And I ask this river to be careful.

‘I am fragile,’ I say, on the softest breath.

‘Sway me,

always,

never to rush me,

never demand.

Hold me carefully, river.

Hold me carefully,

I am not like the others

made of brick and bone

and steel.

I am only like I am.

I am only like I am.

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Categories
Poetry

Beneath The Sad Moon

What is this softness

that takes my heart dancing

beneath the sad moon?

When aching life pours from the sky,

and my heart cries

to be heard

for once

without question.

Will I listen?

No.

I will hear,

but I will not listen, for fear,

of what?

The heart needs too much.

The heart needs too much

that I,

whoever I am,

cannot ask life to give.