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.
Do not look at my face
and tell me
I am beautiful.
Do not look at my skin
and see your hands
upon my life.
Look at me.
Look at me.
I am here.
I have always
always
been here.
Energy speaks
truer
than words.
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.
Life is a story I tell myself.
And I daren’t tell it wrong
for fear of the unhappy ending.
But what is unhappy?
And what is an ending
if a beginning is found
on the other side
of each new end?
The wind, I think,
is peace.
The breath of the earth.
The song of the trees.
And we will bathe in her softness,
today,
and every day.
The wind, I think,
rolls all days into one.
May she catch us
and show us
the truth in her song.
She floats on the wind
as they stare.
And they will never know her
as their own.
Never see her truth
as anything other
than feathers in the garden.
Yet, she knows herself, dear.
And she knows, darling softness,
that a field of daisies
and daffodils
and dandelions waits for her
somewhere.
Where the soft things come together
at last.
How beautiful to see your tears
and know your soul
has been kissed
by music.
She danced like no one was watching.
She went to that place where all artists go when they create.
She is my daughter and she is five, but actually she is ageless, and it was this beautiful, ageless essence that danced her.
We thought we were there to watch a busker play his peaceful guitar.
We weren’t.
We were there to watch her.
And to know it was a moment so precious that those of us who witnessed it won’t forget.
My darling girl.
She danced like no one was watching.
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