I just watched Lord of the rings, again;
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Twirling leaves, swaying, falling.
Flowing gowns, floating on air.
Softness.
Romance.
Light and trees.
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Oh well.
There’s always next time.
Some days I fall. I’m not a good mum. I’m not a good human. I’m not a good me, on those days I fall.
It’s not a consolation to know that I do not fall alone. That humanity itself is in constant fluctuation, that some days we rise and some days we fall. I’ve fallen. Me. The writer of these words, the feeler of these aches. On those days I wish for more, I also wish for peace. The two do not go hand in hand.
But it’s not as easy as finding peace and being happy with that. Without this beautiful depth—without this wild and wistful wind that moves me—there would be no passion to whoosh me along the creative river of life, the river I know and love so well.
Is it about lowering the expectations I have of myself? Or is it about lowering my expectations of life? What, I wonder, would help me to feel at peace in a world that so often clips my wings.
I was given wings to fly.
I long to use them.
Is this me, using them? Right in this moment, is this the way I was meant to fly? To write about love and loss and sorrow and sacrifice? About life at its best and life at its worst and how, at some level, it’s all the same thing, anyway?
What is it all for?
And when will I stop asking: what is it all for?
And they wait for something more.
And they sip cold tea.
And they laugh with sad eyes.
And they speak with serious voices.
And they hide the soft pieces of their hearts.
And they wait.
And they wait.
And they wait for something more.
She shines quietly for peace
as the rain falls all around.
She watches the storms rage
and knows her role
is still
to be as she was born to be.
The sun.
Always the sun,
no matter the dark clouds;
no matter the storms that rage.
Sometimes her touch is soft.
Other times, she is fierce enough
to burn new eyes into the fabric
of all the things.
But always she remains the sun.
Always she remains the sun.
Tell my heart to the moon.
Tell it all the love songs,
and all the pretty little hours that have moved me.
Tell it a smile.
Tell it wisdom, tell it grace, peace, joy and fun.
For if ever my sun begins to fade,
tell the moon to remind me.
It’s time, now, to shine.
Since the beginning of time, the beautiful dreamers have dreamed the dreams for all.
Now it is time
for all.
To dream the dreams for themselves.
Life is the magic you make it.
So
make it.
To the weary traveler of life:
No wonder you are tired.
You have been running
for so long
away from the dreams that chase you.
Let them come.
Let them fall into you
and let the river have them do
whatever they will do
to your ready and waiting heart.
Never let go of the key once it finds you.
The key will whisper the wind into you.
It will connect you to the invisible strands of life that make music you and that make you music.
The key will whisper the way to you, your way, the one you never even knew you’d been searching for.
Never let go of the key once it finds you.
Just let it unlock you.
The wind will take care of the rest.
The universe
says:
Go!
