These days I am learning radical lessons on self-compassion. That being whole is a paradigm shift where we don’t see parts of ourselves as good or bad, just different aspects of being human. That kindness towards our experience of self is the gateway to peace and acceptance.
These days I can’t get enough of the cold spring sky who asks me to come sit beneath her and tell her of my cares for awhile.
These days my insides are consumed with plate tectonics, having traveled far from where they once formed; I’ve changed. These shifts and drifting skiffs and schisms inside defying words. One day over there. Now right here. And I couldn’t tell you how I arrived except to say that heart and guts and the courage to dive for my truth became my brave bateaus.
These days trips to the donation bin, clearing out stuff, and a continued unraveling of my life have become regular items on my to-do list, even while life’s winds continue their constant blow without regard for my loss of layers. Their continued gusts whip through aching bones.
These days, the other day, I forgot my brother was no longer here. Isn’t that silly, I thought as I went to text him, then blinked, remembering, He’s been gone over a year, there’s nobody at the end of that phone. I wondered at the mind’s ability to forget.
These days my heart finds new ways to break, and I leave trails of crumbs wherever I go.
These days I write of my shades of self without purpose or determination or organization; just honesty, disintegration, disorganization, reinvention, revelation.
These days I can’t get enough of that cold spring sky who asks me to come sit beneath her and tell her of my cares for awhile. She promises there is warmth on the horizon and an easier breeze coming soon. She tells me of the story of her life; the constant weather patterns she must flow, change, adapt, contain, hold.
She tells me like sky, like life. Sometimes it aches to become.