One day,
she sits alone,
and understands it all.
That she’s never been alone.
That all this time
their pain has lived within her,
pain she never asked for,
pain that is not hers to bear.
Clear air is what she knows she is,
not charcoal-grey squalls,
nor black-rimmed mud.
A heavy reality,
a scared, scared world
drowns her in the darkness
of humanity’s shadow.
Until she removes the soot
and clears the air
once again.
I knew it would take me there. To the place beyond everything, the place that shows me, really quite beautifully, who I truly am.
I can’t remember the last time I watched Legends of the Fall. A very long time ago. A lifetime ago, you might say, and if you did say that I wouldn’t argue with you. I last saw the movie before I had truly lived. Before I had truly ached. Before I had truly felt loss, and the echoing stillness of life’s fragility.
Last night I watched the movie through new eyes, and it tore me apart. Very beautifully, it tore me apart, but it tore me apart all the same.
It reminded me of the depth and softness of who I am.
It reminded me of the beauty of the human connection.
And it reminded me why I write: to feel and to help others feel, too.
Thank goodness I watched that movie, last night.
Thank goodness.
I do not care to be seen.
I do not wish to scramble,
do not wish to fight my way
to the top
to be seen,
to be loved
a little more than this.
Perhaps I should try harder
to care.
Perhaps I should wish
that I might choose,
one day,
to fight like them
until I have been
chosen
and loved.
A little more than this.
There is depth and beauty in loneliness.
It is quiet.
Peaceful.
And though I’ve never known it,
loneliness is the wave that has known me
a lifetime, long.
Its quiet waits for nothing,
it just hangs in the air,
aching,
holding me closer
and closer
until I am quiet, too.
I will try to let it be.
To never ask it to leave,
but instead,
let it fill me
until I have no room left inside.
I will let it be, now,
loneliness.
I will no longer be attached
to wishing it gone.
So you’ve forgotten what it feels like
to unfold yourself,
to undress, her soul
in your hands
like the dream
she was always meant to be
for you.
Music is the wind,
and I am the air.
And we gracefully dance,
and we blissfully play,
and we claim our place
within the fabric of
the other
until we are one.
Life, for me, has been an up and down ride.
A little like one of those slides at the playground, the ones that follow a wave-like movement and snake you all the way down to the ground, sometimes taking your stomach with it.
Life, for me, also changed when I had the epiphany that my body (and I believe all bodies, but that’s a theory for another post, I suppose) was absorbing the energy of life around me, and I was reacting heavily based on whatever it was absorbing. Needless to say: learning, and exploring, the term Empath changed my life. And learning about subtle energy and meditation changed it even more.
This morning—all in the space of an hour—I’ve had memories resurface that (although I missed the memo at the time) were very obvious signposts as to my body’s highly sensitive nature. I’ll never forget, about a million years ago, sitting in the passenger seat of our old clunker with my Dad at the wheel. Every morning we would travel to our shared workplace together, and every morning, in a confused state of discomfort, I would shudder as I listened to the morning show hosts chatter away.
I adored the two of them. The whole town did, actually, they were a beautiful pair. But. They were extremely negative, and always it felt like there was a heaviness or grumpiness to their chatter that had me dreading the morning commute. It was confusing because I liked them. It was horrible because they felt so entirely uncomfortable within my body.
I now understand that this is because of the way that I am built, that the more dense the feeling I’m exposed to, the more I tend to flounder. As a result, a good amount of alone time is extremely important for me to get back into the middle of me. Extremely important. (Have I mentioned how important alone time is for me? Very.)
It’s not all bad, though. If grumpiness feels completely horrible to me, you might be able to guess how absolutely beautiful love feels within my tiny human frame. And nature. And music— oh good heavens, don’t even get me started on the absolute purity that music fills me with. It feels like a beautiful wind. A wind that twists and frees my body in ways I never thought possible.
Anyhow, it’s a journey. A beautiful adventure, filled with tears and joy and all the horrible lovely things. Where to next?
I suppose we’re all about to find out. 🙂
Bliss
and
grief
are powerfully
confusingly
the same.
I’ve just read a friend’s blog post.
It’s broken me in half, completely stripped my soul bare.
It was about that very raw and real human conundrum: that invisible place between here and there.
That pristine place that almost exits, but doesn’t quite, and maybe never will.
That place in-between— it aches of unattainable knowing.
It is the fire that the phoenix rises from, before flying into the sunshine of a beautiful new day.
It feels so scary, to be here in this place in-between.
Do any of us ever know what’s on the other side of the flames?
No.
Maybe that’s what makes this place feel so raw.
So truly achingly real.
Humanity.
What the bloody hell do you do to me?
I’m down in the depths of me, today.
It feels like sadness, but it is far more powerful than that.
This beautiful sadness.
It is a sadness I long for, a sadness I crave.
It flows through my veins until there is nowhere left for it to go but out.
Onto this page.
Into new hearts— yours, his, hers, theirs.
I was always told this bliss only lives in happiness.
But this is not happiness.
This is an ache.
This is the most beautiful ache of all.
