Beautiful are the moments
where I remember
you are you,
and I am me.
Perfectly.
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.
How beautiful.
To know that different
is not another word for wrong.
From the depths of the ache came a beautiful epiphany.
A knowing that the day could be different, and would be different, if only I’d offer myself a brighter choice; something beautiful to fill my cup to just enough.
I stood in front of the bed, exhausted from lack of sleep.
How can you love yourself in this moment? said the whisper.
The answer: make the bed. Admire its softness.
Again, I stood in front of the bed, exhausted from lack of sleep.
How can you love yourself in this moment? said the whisper, once more.
A glass of warm lemon water. A candle on the ledge of the shower.
It was a normal weekday morning. A weekday morning that could have taken my whole day down had I not listened to the quiet voice of my heart.
I sat on the couch, still exhausted from lack of sleep.
Knowing I had lived beautifully.
Knowing that had been the difference.
She is the golden skin
by lamplight.
She is not the beauty
they see
in her face,
her eyes,
her hair.
She is glorious
alone.
Without the eyes of others.
The wind will call and you will know.
And it won’t tell you why,
and it won’t tell you what
but you will follow
blindly,
hopefully,
until the sun peaks ’round the bend
and the horizon dazzles
in ways far beyond possible.
Indigo, apricot nights.
Warm breath on starlit cheeks.
And you will know
(oh, you will know)
what it was like
to have lived.
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 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.
Deep within my heart
there is a river, raging on.
And I ask this river to be careful.
‘I am fragile,’ I say, on the softest breath.
‘Sway me,
always,
never to rush me,
never demand.
Hold me carefully, river.
Hold me carefully,
I am not like the others
made of brick and bone
and steel.
I am only like I am.
I am only like I am.‘
If sleep could touch my cheek,
I would ask for her slender hand
a thousand times.
If sleep did fall upon me now,
I dare not wake.
No.
I dare…not…
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.
Here I am, now.
Me.
And I fly and I fly
and I fly away, now.
Still me.
Flying, flying away.
They tell me not to fly away.
They tell me not to fly away.
