Maybe I’m sitting in a tree, somewhere, looking down at it all. I’m sure my feet are dangling, and I’m probably whistling in harmony with the wind through the branches.
What do I see when I look down at my life? I see myself sitting quietly at a little white desk, typing away, visualising a peaceful version of myself up there.
Peaceful me would look down at the small children running circles around the house, see me wincing at the too many seconds of loud for comfort and she’d send a little caring my way. An invisible hug, maybe. Whatever I might need to soothe me.
She’d also look down and see me laughing to the point of holding my belly. The six-year-old. The most HILARIOUS trick anyone has ever played on me. He’s managed to pull it off, and I highly doubt he’ll be able to top such brilliance in both wit and execution again, but I’ll remain on guard, just in case. Peaceful me would know that’s the first time I’ve laughed like that in a long, long time.Then she’d send a great big smile my way.
Peaceful me would see the good and bad of it and whisper to me: it’s all good.
I walk the streets listening to music that makes me cry.
I suppose I will do this until I have made peace with my past and become all that I am in this moment forever onwards, but for now, this is me: and me feels achingly beautiful. Like snow.
To walk the streets in this way, releasing newly risen anger and pain, is the gasp for breath I’ve needed to take for so long. Was I holding my breath, all those years? What did I do with anger and sadness before I learned to tie them in a ribbon of apricot sun?
I am no different to the one who reads this. Each of us travel through childhood gathering scars we will carry for the rest of our lives, or at least until we face them. I am facing mine, now.
I am feeling the anger and the pain.
I am also feeling a greater love than I’ve ever known.
For the sweet little girl I was, and still am in many ways.
For the beautiful people who loved me. How they nurtured my softness, how they pained to see it tarnished by the hardness of the world.