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.
The quiet has come upon me, and so I have to write.
It’s a strange quiet, a wonderful one, however mixed with a soft melancholy. It’s been with me, on and off, for as long as I can remember, and so it is that I recognise this feeling as my soul.
The little girl me felt it when she looked out at the big world, an ant amongst giants.
The teenage me felt it when she saw the grey sadness of all the adults passing by.
And now I feel it. When I am not thinking life, but feeling it all the way through to the tender aching parts.
Every version of me has used this quiet to write.
So what is the purpose of this particular post, you might ask, and if you were to ask this you’d be right to do so. I am asking this. But the truth is, I know the answer.
The answer is: my soul has nothing to say, still she must speak.
And this is how she does so.
This is how she sways into the world beyond my eyes.
She has never needed a reason for that.
In the cupboard of me
you will find a heart that is love,
a mind that is scattered,
a wind that is soft and warm,
a day that will never end.
In the cupboard of me
you will find ingredients
unknown
and strange.
You will find
all of life
in the cupboard of me.
Life for the choosing.
Life for the taking.
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