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.
How deep is the sea that clutches
and drags me to the muddy floor, within?
How many days will I tumble
into the swell of inner life
unspoken, unwanted, unkind?
Shall I stand here, now,
battered and smiling, beside this beautiful life?
Still searching.
Still searching.
Always searching, but for the fleeting days
of clarity,
of home neat and tidy.
The creative knife;
sharp, yet desperately beautiful in shine.
Still searching.
Always, still searching.
Hush.
Here in the silence
that lingers between each star.
Close your eyes,
let the sweet velvet black
hold you.
And you will know
(you will know)
that this is all you need.
The twinkling silence that is you.
This is all you need.
How lovely it is
to find home again.
In this home
I am what I am,
and what I am
is a river,
a rock,
a lion,
a ballerina.
What I am
is all I am.
All I am
is all there ever was.
All I am
is all
I am.
There is no feeling
quite like the delicious wholeness
of a lost girl
found once more.
There is no feeling quite like this.
Your truth is true
because you believe it.
And you must believe it
until you no longer do.
There is no quick way to birth a rose.
A rose must slowly
awaken
to beautiful
wide-open
life.
Wide-open-life.
It is a place that exists only
in the sky of us.
A neutral place,
where all are loved,
and all love
unconditionally.
Believe what you will.
Choose a side
if you will.
It is true for now.
It is true, only for now.
Until the rose opens.
Until the garden grows.
I am all that I am,
and wherever I drift
on the wind of today
is as it should be,
is all that I am.
As it should be
is all that I am.
You think you are one thing.
You are not one thing.
You are the entire ocean.
Take your time,
be every drop.
Life is busy and overwhelming at the moment. I’m better for the tools I’ve found to bring me back to softness (walking, gratefulness, meditation) but it’s a mammoth slog I’ve been through.
And a mammoth slog that lay ahead.
My husband and I are merging two houses into one. House work must be done. Small children must be both survived and parented beautifully, given the monstrously high standards I set for myself.
And I need to write, or create (more than I have been) or I might die. No one is dramatic here. No one at all.
I’ve never been through a period of life that has been so truly exhausting, from all angles, for so long. A million different balls hover in the air around me and I do not know which one to reach for in order to catch it and bring it down.
Not only that, but my spirit is quite literally breaking free from my body, shouting (well, more buzzing and glowing, really) to be let out, to be set free. From something. From everything. The energy that moves through my body so often brings such beauty to my life, but I can also hear it asking to be apart of something more. I wish I had the time, clarity, and grit to give it what it is asking of me.
I’m grateful.
I’m tired.
And it’s tough. And it’s oddly beautiful.
It is not the darkness
of others
I fear.
It is my own
crimson need
to mould the world
into a shape
that cannot possibly exist,
or remain.
Perfection is rigid,
solid,
stiff.
Life
is the ever flowing river
of everything,
everyone,
every way.
Broken?
Unbroken?
Right?
Wrong?
There is nothing
but life asking questions.
And answering them
as it will.
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