It is a softness that wanders the fields with me.
Everywhere I go, it is there, sending me off on my uncertain way.
Sometimes, I feel like a small bird, left to battle the raging storms of life.
I do not fight this softness. I only seek to know it well (though sometimes I wish it were a tiger, fierce and free.)
It is me and I am it, this softness of heart.
Let it become.
I am a child of the wind.
My bare skin knows the beauty of this life, and yet, within these soft walls, I am bare.
How heavy it is to hold this uncertain hand of mine.
Sometimes.
There she was.
She had always been there
beneath the rubble of crumbling
life.
How sweetly the sun did shine
upon her remembrance.
The word sipping is very pretty, isn’t it? Delicate, like the action it shows. I can see a small pair of hands, a little tea cup beside a little light. And I know it is home.
I know it is me.
I’m sipping chamomile tea and wishing to be held like this more often. Wishing to be seen in the softness, wishing to share it and have others agree it is a beautiful softness we feel.
Tea is like that. Delicate, like the first breeze of spring, like the bunnies that graze by the river, in the evening. It sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? An unreal imagining, only it’s true.
And so, so beautiful as the delicate rolls all around me.
I have been struggling more than usual over the past few months. Missing the beautiful flow I found a while back, and yet also feeling the embers of momentum begin to burn within me once more.
I wake each morning at 6 and I meditate, followed by yoga if I can fit it in. This is holding myself and my family as best as I can, with love.
I’m proud of myself for giving myself and my family these gifts.
If only a beautiful sun would light the rest of my world, so I could see clearly the path ahead. I forget myself so easily. What I love. Who I am. Each step is as sure as it should be. Why is it I continue to search for relief on the horizon?
I am home.
Let me stay here.
Let me fall into this beautiful sweet depth, forever.
She holds my hand and walks me home
while rabid dogs do lie,
she takes each ache, and wraps them dear
though fear, old foe, won’t die.
Her seeds of goodness, daily, sprout
she guides my heart by day,
the softest wind, she whispers me,
her sun the warmest ray.
And with this peace, I lay her tune
I sing her through the night,
oh, softness, take, me home again,
sweet angel, golden light.
***
When I believed in angels, a golden one would shine.
And I would see her face in the dark of my mind, always smiling, always soft and sweet and dear.
And she would hold me through this life, the golden one, when I was broken, lost or bruised.
I wish I still believed in angels.
I wish I still believed.
The quiet is here and so am I.
I will life to slow down, I ache for it; I am not made for speed.
I am made for the whisper of the trees, for the silver trail of snails on a rainy path.
I am with this world, but I am captured by it, not a citizen free; can we ever be free, when we have each other to hold? The answer is no, if the heart runs as deep as this.
No, built from sacrifice and deep, deep love.
But how I long to live the day exactly as I choose.
I would live beside the river.
I would walk and feel the breeze.
I would have my family, only.
And I would draw, and sing
and give my heart to the soft things.
And with a smile,
she held life gone by.
And love kept her.
Love kept her,
home.
Home, at last.
I am home when the beautiful song of my heart is at peace.
There is nothing loud, here, nothing beyond the birds and the rippling pools of shadow on brick.
I am just me, in all of my softness.
Me, in this beautiful place, home.
I have loved tenderly, here.
I will always love tenderly.
If light though the trees is your wish,
it is my wish, too.
If a meadow awash with eerie shadow
calls you,
I am gone.
Already beyond the boxwoods
and sweet peas
of my garden, home.
Day 24. Somewhere over the rainbow.
I wear my heart on my sleeve. I always have, I always will.
With my family here by my side on this, the great Tasmanian adventure, I’m pretty much bathing in love hearts…which is the loveliest.
That’s the thing about family.
They feel like home.
And at home I am free to be who I am, all the way ’round, back out the other side again.
It is the loveliest thing.
And they sometimes roll their eyes at my love hearty ways, and they probably think I’m a little odd, at times.
But there is always unconditional love to be found.
That’s the thing about family.
That’s the thing that fills my joy pots to overflowing.
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