But isn’t it entirely beautiful
to be you.
But isn’t it entirely beautiful
to be you.
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.
Let me tell you
how the small things you do
Let me show you this mirror,
let you reach for it in wonder.
This shine belongs to you,
do you see?
Do you see?
‘Yes, Moon?’ said Sun as he fell into the evening sky.
‘I shine every night. I brighten the humans’ world. Why do they not love me?’
‘You have a chip in your tooth.’
‘Do I?! Oh, no! Maybe that’s why!’
‘It’s a tooth.’
‘I know. And I don’t want a broken one.’
‘But you have a broken one.’
‘Sun! You are not hearing what I am saying! The humans don’t love me and I don’t want a broken tooth.’ Moon stormed around the sky, looking for her lost boot.
‘Moon? I love you. And you have a broken tooth. Not but, and. Did you hear me? And you have a broken tooth.’
‘Sun. I have no idea what you’re on about,’ said Moon, putting her found boot on and keying in her crescent shine coordinates.
‘I know, Moon, I know. You’ll understand one day.’
And with that, Moon said goodbye and shone unconditionally for the humans below.
Beautiful are the moments
where I remember
you are you,
and I am me.
Beautiful are the mornings
the sun shines on cobwebby thoughts
and there I see the glimmer of truth.
How beautiful you are.
How beautiful I am.
To know that different
is not another word for wrong.
I have lived on this earth with them,
but not apart of them.
It is a story I have not written.
( whoever ‘I’ is )
would not write a story such as this.
I am them and they are me,
and yet there is a silence so loud in the air
that feeds on my soul,
and asks me to learn to be happy
despite of it all.
and I see they would love
if they would stop
for a moment
There is a beautiful fire in the belly of them.
A pure, raging storm
meant for the rising of their beautiful day.
But they use it to fight.
To stay lost in childhood gone by
and I resist it.
I resist the binds their stories have gathered,
knowing I am not a story of shame, fear, or hate.
I try to hold them, I try to wait.
And yet, perhaps I might try
to fall into the ocean of it all
that I am just one of many waves
surging differently to the rest.
If I am not her,
that good and lovely girl in a box,
who am I?
Now that this body is alive
with the energy of all of life,
who am I?
I believe this,
but I believe the opposite of this, too.
I love you desperately,
I hate you just as achingly.
Both can exist within, but how?
I am bursting fire,
I am calm ocean blue.
I do not understand, and I understand entirely.
For one small me,
these feelings are large.
Too large for me to carry
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.
The wind cannot be caught.
It cannot be moulded to perfection,
scraped and gutted
and made to be something other than
what it is.
The wind is only, and always, the wind.
Flow as you will.
The sun is one
but never can shine
Her rays will splay,
and always touch the world
as they do.
How they splay
is a question for each new moment.
Who they will touch,
and in what way:
The sun will shine as she will.
The sun will always shine
as she will.