Do not look at my face
and tell me
I am beautiful.
Do not look at my skin
and see your hands
upon my life.
Look at me.
Look at me.
I am here.
I have always
always
been here.
Tag: Beauty
I am drinking night-time tea, writing, as if to write to a lover of feelings yet to be spoken.
I’ve been in the garden today. I sometimes wish my Nan was still alive so I could ask her: ‘Is this what it felt like for you?’ She was a big gardener. I thought it must have been because she liked gardens.
I want to ask her if she, too, felt the whisper of the earth and was afraid to tell us. I want to ask her if delicate roots intrigued her, if rose buds felt like dear, sweet children.
Such beautiful voices have been suppressed. Beautiful voices of truth and earthly wisdom, voices of absolute love and dear, dear compassion.
You will not silence me, fearful past.
I will speak of this beauty.
I will shout it, and the world will know its truth.
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Wildflowers
I must remind myself:
the wildflowers will wait.
Through pain, love and connection can be found.
Through misstep, the sweet path forward can be carved and tread.
I remind myself, often, that mistakes are beautiful. Contrast to what is ‘right’ brings truth to those who allow themselves to see their imperfections. It is okay to be vulnerable.
It is okay to fail.
It is necessary to fail in order to gain perspective.
I have a bad habit of getting down on myself and my imperfections, and yet I also sit here with eyes wide open. I see that every mistake was perfect. Every dark moment, shimmering with light.
Life is ugly, horrible, beautiful.
Life is mine, and yours, and ours.
I ache with gratefulness.
I ache with it.
The wind will call and you will know.
And it won’t tell you why,
and it won’t tell you what
but you will follow
blindly,
hopefully,
until the sun peaks ’round the bend
and the horizon dazzles
in ways far beyond possible.
Indigo, apricot nights.
Warm breath on starlit cheeks.
And you will know
(oh, you will know)
what it was like
to have lived.
I lay in bed last night, at 4am, thinking of the tortured artist, thing.
We feel so deeply, us creative folk, and therefore, we capture the world in its fullest expression.
Which is beautiful. Really, ice-shatteringly beautiful.
But we are often not understood, at best. And at worst…we are grossly misunderstood, usually by the logically minded folk of the world, who do not (perhaps cannot) see the world the way we do.
Sometimes we are judged as weak, overly sensitive; irresponsible, messy. A lonely human, this does make, at times.
A lonely human this does make, at times.
I remember sitting at my piano as a nineteen year old, feeling the world in all its depth; the beauty of the autumn leaves outside the window, a huge comfort as I sat and wondered about my place in the world.
These creative eyes.
They make everything a little more beautiful. A little more horrible. A little more alive.
I’m grateful, for them, I am.
I’d imagine all the tortured artists out there were grateful, even the ones who battled to a sometimes tragic end.
Misunderstood, they were, and a little bit lonely, maybe.
A little bit scared of the depths that dragged them beneath the surface, on occasion, maybe.
Especially at 4am, and the very next day.
Categories
Now They Are One
Shadow dancer on the wall.
Darling of light and form.
A body.
A wall.
Each but a fragment of life
until they find each other.
Now they are one, yes.
Now they are one.
Categories
A Strange Sort of Beautiful
It’s a strange sort of beautiful, this life.
I’ve followed the breadcrumbs, even the ones I knew would blow up my world. (They blew it up: into a million pieces of possibility. Beautiful possibility, for everyone around me.)
I have been lost. I have been ecstasy.
I have been right when I thought I was wrong, and wrong when I thought I was right.
I have been in love—my goodness, I have been in love—and I have been broken, and I have been dirty, and I have been changed.
This whole life long, I thought I was one thing.
I never have been one thing. I have been a starburst of infinity.
Always.
And now I see her rise, this girl, to this woman inside me— how she soars with the swell of abundant life.
From the ashes, she flies. Out of the haze. At least for today.
There will be new love in this shining place. I’ll see it with my heart, I’ll know it with my soul.
There will be friendship built on truth and depth and eternity.
There will be a roaring spirit, in the place where magic lives.
And there will be you.
Always, there will be you, my friends.
Categories
Darling Day 3. Beautiful.
Darling is a beautiful word.
It sounds like a hummingbird bird, hovering sweetly in her field.
It feels like a little bell that rings away the muck of a muddy day.
There are words that I know.
And there are words that I love.
Darling is a word that I love.
Because what lives within its delicate walls is a treasure greater than the word itself.
An essence.
A code.
A little piece of wonderland.
Beautiful and true.
Beauty is the home that fills my soul
like a glorious day.
Come to me, sweet beauty.
Bring me your Sun.
Let me feel your tender fingers
sweep through my waiting soul.
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