Categories
Healing

Escaping

I never did stop escaping. A sensitive little girl, a face and a voice unkind: I escaped. I never did stop escaping.

*

I am safe and loved in this place in the sky. I am safe. And I am loved, so loved, without a thought, without a care. I am me, and this is the sky. We are here. We are here.

*

I never did stop escaping. All around the children played. They showed me their world, and I made it what I needed it to be. I made it magic and I made it kind. They didn’t know their world was magic and kind. I did. I knew.

*

This is where my real friends live, where my heart lives. I can make the world what I wish it to be, here. The unkind of the outside feels like ice on my skin. I wish only for sun. I ask only for sun.

*

I never did stop escaping. They called me names, they spat on me, and for those moments I was there. But I never did stop escaping. I never did stop escaping.

*

This is where I am. This is me, so beautifully. The deepest ocean, the saddest stream. This is where I am.

*

I never did stop escaping.

Photo by Julia Volk on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Reality

Reality strikes hard, sometimes.

The pain.

The pain of others: it tears me to the bone.

The delicacy of life, its precious petals.

It all aches within this lithe human frame of mine.

Cold impermanence.

Startling truth.

Fragile life.

Sometimes it tears us.

And I know you don’t want to,

but let yourself see:

sometimes it tears us.

I will hold you when it tears you.

I will hold you.

I will hold you.

Categories
Life

Some Days I Fall

Some days I fall. I’m not a good mum. I’m not a good human. I’m not a good me, on those days I fall.

It’s not a consolation to know that I do not fall alone. That humanity itself is in constant fluctuation, that some days we rise and some days we fall. I’ve fallen. Me. The writer of these words, the feeler of these aches. On those days I wish for more, I also wish for peace. The two do not go hand in hand.

But it’s not as easy as finding peace and being happy with that. Without this beautiful depth—without this wild and wistful wind that moves me—there would be no passion to whoosh me along the creative river of life, the river I know and love so well.

Is it about lowering the expectations I have of myself? Or is it about lowering my expectations of life? What, I wonder, would help me to feel at peace in a world that so often clips my wings.

I was given wings to fly.

I long to use them.

Is this me, using them? Right in this moment, is this the way I was meant to fly? To write about love and loss and sorrow and sacrifice? About life at its best and life at its worst and how, at some level, it’s all the same thing, anyway?

What is it all for?

And when will I stop asking: what is it all for?

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

How Is A Rose To Grow?

A rose to meet the morning bright,

to grow in cheer,

to gather life.

Yet day to day

the rose does wither,

day to day the rose does wither,

lost

beneath the foggy dreary.

Lost.

Beneath.

How is a rose to gather

honey sweet

from deep blue trees?

How is a rose to grow

in the dark

of uncaring

life?

How is a rose to grow?

Categories
Life

Dance

I bounded out of bed. No, really, I bounded out of bed and bounced around my room, arms and legs flailing— a sort of contemporary dance concoction that would have won me the award for the most daggy morning-human, ever. ( Like, ever ever. )

I’m glad I listened to the quiet whisper that asked me to flick Spotify onto a super playlist of YES, and go with it. It started my day beautifully, and had me connecting to my heart and full energetic flow right away, which I struggle with from time to time, I’ll admit.

I’m feeling positive, at the moment, which feels empowering and wonderful on the back of the bouts of depression I’ve found myself wading through over the past couple of years. I’m probably a little odd in my take on the denser human experiences such as depression, but I believe it’s all there to frame life and to, ultimately, make it better. To show us who, how and where we are now, and to teach us who, how and where we would prefer to be.

Without times of imbalance, how can we possibly know and appreciate our body in equilibrium? How can we recognise the things in life we need to shift if we don’t experience a reaction to them? How can we feel deep empathy for others experiencing tough times, if we haven’t stomped through the sludge, ourselves?

Do I like being depressed? Well, no. It’s a journey fraught with many a winding road and impossibly steep hill. But do I see how it has grown me as an empathic human and broadened my perspective for the good of a great deal more people than just me? Absolutely. And I’m so, so grateful.

I am also grateful to able to dance about the house like an absolute loon and, rather than feel silly, fully LOVE the ways this body of mine can be all the magical things.

YES!

Categories
Poetry

Rainy Days

Rainy days,

come find me sweet.

Spill your goodness

into the arms of the day,

until the sun shines on the fields

once more.

Categories
Poetry

The Day The Sun Died

The ocean was alive the day the sun died.

Nobody saw its white beauty.

Nobody felt the cool of its break on their skin.

Eerie silence rose into the sky the day the sun died.

Pain instead of joy, broken instead of fixed;

life, never to shine again.

The sun was dead.

Still the ocean was perfect.

Categories
Poetry

These Tears

Do these tears make you

uncomfortable?

How about

this:

does the rain make you

uncomfortable?

The sky

is not afraid to rain, and I

am not afraid to cry.

I am not afraid of what you’ll

think

of me if I cry. Just as I am not

afraid

of what you’ll think of me if

I sneeze.

Or laugh.

Or breathe.

Categories
Poetry

Frozen In Time

Winter in my eyes,

the warm river of me

slowly

ceases to flow.

Frozen in time,

with only the memory

of two hearts spinning

into one

sweet

love.

Categories
Poetry

The Same

Bliss

and

grief

are powerfully

confusingly

the same.