Categories
Life

Life Is For Living

Life is for living. It’s a lovely sentiment, isn’t it?

Lovely. And vague.

Because what, exactly, is living?

I turned thirty-eight this year, and I’m still fine tuning what living means to me. I imagine I always will be. Ever evolving. Ever learning and growing.

One of the beautiful things I’ve learnt about what living is to me, is that I have these five senses for a reason. For most of my life, I woke of a morning, achieved the mindless list of tasks laid out ahead, went to bed, and repeated the whole thing again the next day.

No wonder my soul was starving.

I’ve started to understand that, to fully live, you need to know yourself and how your senses interact with the world around you. I, for instance, am extremely sensitive and I’ve come to the realisation that because my senses are heightened…I need to be particularly conscious of my environment.

For example: I need to try and keep things tidy, both internally and externally. I feel calm when things are tidy. I feel calm when I am completing one task at a time. Overwhelm, for me, equals poor mental health and activation of either the fight, flight, or freeze response (and, I assure you, none of these survival responses have ever worked out well for me, in the past.)

This time in my life is where I’ve begun to really use my senses to enhance my world and wellbeing. I’ve come to understand that everything we perceive in life has a texture and depth, and I try to utilise this knowledge to better my life, as much as I can.

For some reason, my nervous system tends to do much better when it comes to perceiving softer, lighter more porous textures. Wood grain soothes me. Light, drifting plants soothe me. Soft pinks, mauves, light greys: these are all the colours of me. And yet, for the longest time, I surrounded myself with bright and bold…because the rest of the world did. I hadn’t learned to know myself yet.

I often think back to (and I’ve mentioned this story on here before) the discomfort I used to feel when driving to work with my Dad, listening to the two negative, grumpy radio hosts on the morning show. Every time I heard them speak, I wanted to run. I had no idea why I was feeling this way, at the time, but now I know. It was the density of their energy. The texture. It was not at all light, it was heavy and bold: never have I thrived when surrounded by this kind of dense energy. Never have I been comfortable in my own, unique (big ol’ sensitive muffin) skin.

I can’t avoid density, I know that. Life is full of the dark, the negative, the heavy. But I can try to be mindful of surrounding myself as much as possible with the softness that brings me back to life, so that’s what I try my best to do.

Humans are funny creatures. How our worlds shift and change with time and age.

And though reality often hurts, it is also very beautiful.

Life is for living, isn’t it.

And so it is: I live.

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Categories
Life

Peace

Peace.

It’s soft and it’s cool.

It’s free and it’s flowing.

And quiet. (Good heavens it’s quiet. I close my eyes for that one. Truly. I close my eyes.)

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Peace.

It lives in the candle beside me; within this flame, still and perfect.

I drink tea alone—peace lives there.

And the wind, swaying green beyond the window: it stops me as I wander.

It brings me home.

Peace is the language that brings me home.

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Peace.

It is such a beautiful thing.

And it’s funny. How long it has taken me to see its worth.

That I’ve been looking for it. That, always, it’s been mine.

If only I’d known that I needed it.

I needed it.

Peace. I need it, still.

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Categories
Life

Choosing This

I’ve always looked beyond.

Always searched for the more.

Sometimes I wait for the more,

craving the sweet beauty of tomorrow.

Other times, I wait in fear.

For horrors that may, or may not come.

None of it is real.

None of it is now.

None of it is me…

until it is.

And even when it is,

it is not me.

It is always only life.

Life that has come.

And life that has gone.

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Categories
Motherhood

A Beautiful Mess

This messy home,

an incorrectness:

something broken

needing to be fixed.

The wars we rage inside ourselves

just to keep control,

to maintain clean,

to maintain ‘right.’

It is a mistake of the eyes

and the heart

not to see the true beauty

of a home:

messy, chaotic,

beautifully lived in.

These crumbs on the floor.

They are not bad or wrong.

They are a reminder of my children.

How lucky I am to have them at all.

This beautiful mess a child does bring.

Mess is life.

And though a pristine home

is a gift to be treasured,

so is this mess.

This mess of sweet

imperfect

life.

Categories
Poetry

I See Me

The soft girl whispers in my ear.

I drift each cushion to the foot of the bed and carefully place it off to the side, as if it were made of precious, gold leaf.

I peel back the doona; the sight of a crisp sheet peeking out beyond its triangular puff will never cease to satisfy.

The world runs fast.

I run slow. Smooth. Deep.

Just the way I was made to run.

I see the pace of the world, I do not choose it.

I see me, now.

I choose me, now.

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Categories
Poetry

Clear Air

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.

Categories
Poetry

My Own Peace

Some days,

I take a deep breath

and ask the world to soften.

The world never does soften.

So I fall behind its wind,

and I find my own

peace.

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.

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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.

Categories
Poetry

The Next Step

I have spent so much time

searching for the next step,

and yet

the next step

has always been taken.

With no need to search.