Categories
Poetry

She Would

If she could hold the world with all her heart.

If she could soften the growls of the wildest of them,

she would.

Oh, she would.

Oh, she would.

Categories
Life

It’s Love

Perhaps I am here to write. But at the core of that, at the core of my words, at the core of my message…I’m here to love. I always have been, and it’s more clear to me now that I’m allowing my love to be seen.

I can’t help but feel great waves of empathy, particularly for those who are struggling in life. Those who are scared. Those who are being unfairly treated, by those who don’t even recognise the wrongs they perpetuate (as a result of their own messy humanity.)

It’s all a bit of a mess.

It’s all a bit of a mess.

So maybe I shouldn’t waffle at you about love.

Maybe I should be writing something of substance: something about the politics of what’s going on with the floods in eastern Australia, maybe, and how they’d want me to say it’s got nothing to do with the way we treat the planet (when, actually, I believe that Mother Nature was the very first woman who learned to powerfully speak her truth.)

But I’m not going to talk about natural disasters, or about who believes what.

I’m going to talk about love, and how I feel it, and how I feel for everything and everyone, and wish that more humans did.

Because underneath every natural disaster, lives love. The rescuer rowing a family to safety while their own home—a home they have loved and cared for with everything they have—drowns behind them.

That’s love.

That’s not politics.

It’s not who made the wrong choice about dam management and should be fired because of it.

It’s not who is right and who is wrong about the effects of climate change on a struggling earth.

It’s love. It’s always been love.

Beneath it all.

Photo by Anete Lusina on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

Soft

It’s funny. To think of the damage caused by cultural norms and stereotypes.

Of course, there are the absolutely beautiful cultural narratives out there. Those that cherish and honour human life by holding it, by respecting it so beautifully that even the hardest of hearts must surely be touched by the story of it all.

I heard a story as beautiful, just the other day. My counsellor told it to me: how, in her culture, when a woman becomes pregnant, she becomes the queen. The whole tribe lavish her with love, care, and most importantly, perhaps…food.

This discussion came about after a lovely tender moment where she looked over at me, my bulging belly sweetly growing a perfect little gift, and offered to bake me something lovely to celebrate the occasion (that’s right, surprise, I’m fourteen weeks pregnant. And how lovely it is, to me. How lovely it is. xx)

But, I digress. Because although there are some absolutely beautiful cultural stories passed on by certain cultures in the world, other cultures do not even realise their own toxicity. (And when I say toxicity, what I mean is…truly, their cultural ideas are heartbreaking and damaging to individuals who do not fit into the selected story being told.)

There are some absolutely wonderful things to be said about the culture I was born into. But one arm of the narrative, an arm that destroyed any hope of me developing healthy self-esteem in my early years, was the idea that vulnerability and softness were somehow character flaws. I was mostly soft.

As it turns out, this soft part of me, this sensitivity, is my super power; a power that helps me soothe, and bring safety to those who need it. A power that helps me tap into the world of everything and nothing, and pull down the words and creativity needed for my writing to touch people in the way that it seems to.

But my culture called me ‘soft’. It told me to ‘harden up’, and it assumed that If I didn’t…then surely I must be broken, at worst. Naive at best. Never have I been these labels.

And if you are a deep and tender heart resonating with these words…never have you been these labels, either.

Always we’ve been perfect.

Just the way we are.

Think of the trillions of flowers, plants and trees out there. Some are soft. Some are hard, shrubs built to last in the wind and rain and hail. None of them judge each other for being ‘wrong’ in anyway. They simply exist.

And so do I.

So do we.

Photo by Brianna Martinez on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Together, Alone

In the lonely hours

they cry for their humanity.

For the lost past,

for the uncertain present

they wander lost.

Together,

alone.

Categories
Poetry

To Escape

But if you only have eyes

for the way you think life

should

be,

then surely you are forgetting

to live.

To truly live.

As you are.

In this moment, this

version of life that you

so desperately wish

to escape.

Categories
Life

Hope and Peace

What do I see when I see two sides at war?

I see the middle of it all. I see the hurt of both parties, and though I tend to take the side of whoever seems to have the most rational argument (according to my perspective) I can’t help but feel just…sadness. Absolute frustration, powerlessness and sadness.

I’m thinking specifically of this war that’s been raging in the U.S of late, both in terms of the political polarities tearing a hole in America, and in terms of the vastly differing socio-economic backgrounds and belief systems shaken up by the divided states of covid.

I’ve just come away from watching a video of the storming of the Capitol building. The video was clearly put together to support an agenda: a ‘Trump is horrible, and we are going to prove it by carefully constructing a highlight reel of the most shocking, heart-breaking scenes from the day.’ It worked. The video was shocking in its portrayal of Trump and his many loyal followers.

And yet, regardless of how well the video was crafted to sway public opinion to one particular side, there is no denying what happened that day was truly real. No denying the violence. No denying that this sort of primal aggression no longer belongs on the human stage: we’re not cavemen, anymore. Still, our primal instincts remain. How to healthily and peacefully honour them is a mystery yet to be solved by humanity, it seems.

As I watched the riot exploding all about the place, I took a side. I knew that I was taking a side, because I was thinking, ‘ How could they do this? This is so horrible. These people must be (insert judgment here.)’

But then it happened again. That thing that happens to me when I see an absolute wrong, and I ask myself more questions. But why are so many people screaming the same story, and how can so many people be wrong about what they believe? And how bad must their oppression have become for them to be behaving in such a dramatically inappropriate way?

It saddens me. All of it.

How on earth does a species overcome such drastically wide gaps in views and belief systems? How does a species become one harmonised species, rather than fifty billion tiny fragments of confusion, hatred and blame?

I don’t know.

So, I’m a little…I’m not sure what I am. I’m not sure frightened is the right word, and yet frightened really does seem to be the only word I can come up with in the face of all of this fight.

I do not condone the horrible horribleness (excuse my delightful eloquence, here) that occurred at the Capitol building that day, nor do I condone the hatred and inequality perpetuated by humanity, still. Oh my goodness, still. But what is there to do?

I don’t know what to do but surrender into the bleakness and just…hope. Hope that we can sort our stuff out before things get ever so much worse. Hope that humanity can find love and compassion, even in the face of absolute horror and ridiculousness.

Hope.

Hope that one day there will be peace.

Because all I’ve ever wanted was peace.

All I’ve ever wanted was peace.

Photo by Anete Lusina on Pexels.com

Categories
Poetry

The Very Same Breath

But surely you know

the earth still breathes

the very same breath.

The very same breath.

And surely you know

we earthlings do breathe

the very same breath.

The very same

breath.

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.

Categories
Life

It’s Funny How Life Hits You

It’s funny how life hits you.

Whilst taking a shower earlier, life hit me in a simple, yet profound way.

A sudden wave of gratefulness. For hot water, my goodness, such a simple thing: taken for granted every single day by far too many.

How grateful I felt for that water. How grateful I felt to have access to water, at all.

In that moment, I wished so desperately that those around the world who have never known the beauty of hot water on skin, might know that delicious feeling one day.

It’s funny how life hits you.

Photo by Armin Rimoldi on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

This Way, Life

If not this moment,

when?

If not under this orange-grey sky,

beneath these sweeping willows, fair,

where?

How do we taste the rain

and know it is good

if we do not open our mouths?

The warm salty promise

of new found life,

calling us home,

asking to grow our bones

in partnership with the sun.

When? Where? How, life?

Now.

Here.

This way, life.