There you are
behind a soft, uncertain smile,
surprised that you are loved.
You are loved.
It is your expectation
that has made it seem not so.
You see the world and ask it to hold you
as you wish to be held,
and yet this is not the way life works.
Life will hold you as it holds you
so that you may learn
and grow
and be.
Love is born in the quiet room
between expectation and reality.
Hold yourself in your quiet
and you will finally say:
I am loved.
I am loved.
But did they give you a box of darkness?
Or was the darkness
already inside of you.
Waiting for someone to press:
open.
And release.
I write a lot about real life events. Sometimes I connect to fantasy and spin a beautiful story from worlds that don’t exist, but often I write from a place deep within. A place of memory, but more than that. It’s a place of alchemy, the unconscious breathing life into the conscious.
Friends and lovers gone by — how they’ve changed me. Hopes and dreams lost to the wind of time, moments of what if merging with moments of what is. It is a beautiful gift for a writer: to explore the world within, to honour the people, places, life paths that have made us who we are.
I hope my inner world will become a gift for you, also. A mirror to help you discover your own story, and the parts of your soul you’ve yet to explore.
Every person who has grown me into who I am lives within the worlds I write.
And every person that lives within me, through my writing, now lives within you.
I will never take for granted the profound beauty of that.
Hello my lovely bloggy friends,
I hope you’re all coping with whatever your COVID situation looks like. I have been. And I haven’t. But I’m still noticing small wins along the way, which make me feel a little better about the whole ‘life can be so completely shitty sometimes,’ thing.
I’ve been so proud of my growth in awareness, for example. And where I still flail around like a tiny fish in a way too big swimming pool more times than I’d wish, I’m giving myself this one beautiful moment.
A great big YES to all the NO I often tell myself.
So much of my personal growth and power have come from the moments I’ve seen, and owned, the ways I’ve been a bit of a (total) nong. It’s so nice to imagine the new possibilities these growth spurts are likely bringing towards me.
Of course, I’ll always be human. We all will. And it would be foolish to think that growing pains will never arise within my wonky little human boat, again.
But I’m on my way, and I’m so glad I’ve got the sweetest bloggy family to hang out with along the road to…somewhere else.
Do you think a caterpillar knows, upon entering her cocoon, that she will soon die to the only form she’s ever known?
Do you think she is afraid of the dark of the wait, or what might find her on the other side of it all?
Do you think she knows she will soon have wings, and that, though she couldn’t fly before, soon she will soar?
Do you think she wonders what the world might look like, from up there?
Some say the caterpillar is ugly, and that the butterfly is truly the most beautiful version of life she can be.
I say she was always beautiful.
I say she’ll simply be a different kind of beautiful when she grows her wings.
Life is a process of being. Some days the butterfly will be still, some days she will burst into the sky, a flutter of speed.
But despite her many faces, she will always be.
Perhaps that’s her most beautiful part.
Today, I begin the school of life again.
I hold my own hand, soft and unsure, as I stand at the gates of the unknown.
I am afraid.
I am also deep within the stillness of unafraid—
the beautiful tendril in the clouds,
the sweet surrender of a long resisted kiss.
I am the quiet that takes each step with me.
I am the longing I leave at the gate.
I am the breath this new life fills me with.
I am
all that I am,
and always will be.
The skies opened and the earth looked up.
‘My friend,’ said the dry earth, ‘is trying to drown me.’
Days passed.
The sky shone golden orange and the grass mounds of the south glistened, abundant in emerald foliage.
The earth looked to the sky, once more.
Changed.
Slinking down alleyways,
thrilled by the rippling dark.
Black
upon white, cold
stone.
Daisies tilt their heads:
smile.
Axes bite into crimson bone,
dwelling in the corners
of the corners.
Pure.
Devilish.
A curious mix.
Grace breathes life
into fire.
Life breathes fire
into grace.
People call them
boundaries.
I just call them walls.
To keep the love in.
Or out.
I could use a boundary
or two.
But what would I be
if it wasn’t for love?
What would I be
if it wasn’t
for love?
I couldn’t possibly know who I am.
I’m so many things, places, people, feelings: it would be impossible to really say.
Who I am, that is.
The question of who I want to become also seems pointless.
I want to become whoever I become.
I want to feel, and know, and see life from every angle—
to chase the wind as it takes me.
Who I am now is soft,
is gentle,
is wild,
is alive,
is both free and caged,
all at the same time.
The wind of me never stops at one station, only.
I am a woman; passionate, creative, strange.
A woman.
Beautiful, kind, ugly, horrible.
I couldn’t possibly know who I am;
I never stay the same.
I never will stay the same.
