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?
Categories
Each New End
Tag: Spiritual growth
Categories
Messy Life
There is no need to be afraid of the
not good enough.
This weakness you perceive,
this pathetic softness you scold yourself for
compared to
she who declares herself strong.
Close your eyes.
Breathe and know this.
You are perfection
just the way you are.
For you must know this flimsy frailty
in order to recognise the goddess
who one day will rise within.
It must be.
For without this shadow
the towering goddess inside
would remain hidden to you.
Trust the journey.
Trust in the perfection
of messy life.
Bravery
is born
on the tender tears
of loss and disappointment.
Keep stepping.
You are so loved.
Categories
Moon Unconditional
‘Sun?’
‘Yes, Moon?’ said Sun as he fell into the evening sky.
‘I shine every night. I brighten the humans’ world. Why do they not love me?’
‘Moon?’
‘Yes, Sun?’
‘You have a chip in your tooth.’
‘Do I?! Oh, no! Maybe that’s why!’
‘Moon?’
‘Yes, Sun?’
‘It’s a tooth.’
‘I know. And I don’t want a broken one.’
‘But you have a broken one.’
‘Sun! You are not hearing what I am saying! The humans don’t love me and I don’t want a broken tooth.’ Moon stormed around the sky, looking for her lost boot.
‘Moon? I love you. And you have a broken tooth. Not but, and. Did you hear me? And you have a broken tooth.’
‘Sun. I have no idea what you’re on about,’ said Moon, putting her found boot on and keying in her crescent shine coordinates.
‘I know, Moon, I know. You’ll understand one day.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You will.’
And with that, Moon said goodbye and shone unconditionally for the humans below.
Let go.
For peace.
Categories
My Garden Home
If light though the trees is your wish,
it is my wish, too.
If a meadow awash with eerie shadow
calls you,
I am gone.
Already beyond the boxwoods
and sweet peas
of my garden, home.
Day 24. Somewhere over the rainbow.
To know the soft skin of my own truth
as it peers upon the fears of others.
I catch their fear,
I hold it.
I catch their fear
I love it well.
And my truth
whispers:
of this ache, my dear,
you are free.
I have decided
there is a way life should be,
a way I should be.
As a woman.
As a mum.
As a fictional character
plucked perfectly from the sky
of humanity.
And I run
and I run
and I run to get there.
To be that.
And I run until I decide
that I don’t have to run there.
Because I am here.
I am this.
I am this.
No.
Nothing is more important than peace.
Not to me.
Me who has faced the wicked fire of others.
Me who has held my own heart
and felt it break in my hands.
I have broken,
but I am not broken.
I am ready to find and keep the softness.
I am ready to find and keep the peace.
Sometimes I wish I had been born of another culture, a culture of eyes wide open, a culture of hearts wide open.
They say to resist ‘what is’ is to cause your own suffering. Am I suffering? No. But I certainly do ask the question: what if?
Would I be further along in my life journey if, as a child, my sensitivity had been celebrated by my culture, rather than shunned? Would I have saved myself years of healing from the innocent unconsciousness of those around me? Because of a rigid cultural narrative, those who have loved me have accidentally hurt me. I shudder to remember those who have held me in their lives as an insignificant supporting character.
I hope humanity soon understands that the world they see is a choice, rather than a given. I hope the beautiful little soft girls of the world are one day celebrated for the depth and gorgeous attention to detail they bring the world. How shameful that they haven’t been, thus far.
Am I angry that I was brought up starved of female role models? Am I angry that not even my Mother knew how to teach me to truly grow into womanhood? How could she? All she knew was what the western world was. Hardened. Money hungry. Black and white.
There is an aspect of me that is angry. But a bigger part of me understands. There is no one to be angry with. We have all been brought up in boxes. Every single one of us, and when you’re inside of a box (we call them cultures) you truly cannot see there is another way. Another way to see, another way to be. And if you cannot see or be, you cannot teach. You cannot change.
I hope enough eyes are opening, now, to the beauty of individuality.
I hope enough hearts are ready to be free.
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