I live my life through the words I write
All we can depend on is
us, ourselves,
the actions we take.
We can control what we do,
we’re the only ones.
Do not rely on the weather.
Take people’s comments at face value.
Believe the universe to be on our side,
but necessarily on our time frame.
All we can depend on is us,
ourselves.
Open your heart.
Receive guidance from unexpected sources
without searching.
Believe in magic.
It surrounds you.
Surrender your learned need to feel in control
so you can receive the magical messages
meant for you.
The wood has been treated
with pressure.
Built to sustain hardships.
Arranged with equal spacing,
board after board of wood builds a wall
strong, and powerful.
Blocking more than can pass through,
it makes you believe you have a chance,
through the narrow openings.
Reality stands different.
Border. Barrier. Boundary.
All names apply.
Its commonality in partitioning property
eludes us,
the shared spread of land between us
stretches too far.
A new collection
of wood designed to withstand pressure,
due to arrive soon.
With the cloth in my hand
I wipe away the dust, the grime,
make the porcelain shine white
and smell like lemons.
Week after week, it’s become a routine
to maintain upkeep.
With the breath flowing in and out of my nose,
I wipe away the splattered remnants
of anxiety’s lashes,
where she’s struck out against my body,
trying to take control of me.
My breath restores the light,
so I can shine, and smell like lemons.
Day after day, moment after moment,
minute after minute,
it’s become a routine
to maintain upkeep.
Riding the waves of emotional lability
makes my soul weary.
How many hours of turbulence
must I endure
before the storm passes?
Fighting against the waves
brings more exhaustion than acquiescing
but even still,
I collapse, depleted of energy, at 10 AM.
I submit to the emotional storm,
praying,
I retain enough strength to stand again
when it clears.
Most of what I live in fear of,
in the shadows of anxiety
are circumstances fabricated by my mind.
They come from within me,
my own doing,
and break me.
If they come from me
they can end with me too.
I can acknowledge the discomfort
and the depths it reaches
down into my blood and bones.
I can see it there,
give it a name,
inspect and observe its nature,
its behavior.
Why has it chosen to bury here
in my body?
What does it yearn to tell me,
to show me?
How can I help it heal, move on?
What can I find in the space
it leaves behind?
I can acknowledge the discomfort
and grant it permission
to help me heal,
and grow.
They say comparison is the thief of joy.
I’ve seen this, felt this,
I know this.
But still,
I cannot understand
why I expose myself to robbery
time and time again.
I believe I read your character accurately
when I met you.
I believe you to be
humble, genuine, kind, loyal, loving
still, now,
as you seemed before.
I believe you to be
‘one of the good ones’, a shining light
upon this Earth
and the lives of those you touch,
including mine.
I will remember you in fondness,
in hope for the future, your future
and what you will create for all of us.
I will cherish your light
and the way you reminded me
that gut instincts, sometimes, are spot-on.
I am lucky to have met you,
and cherish the changes evolving in me
since that day,
the changes you remain oblivious to,
for the better.
The spruce tree
stands tall, stands proud
for all it has lived through.
Heat, cold, summers, winters many,
build and strengthen its trunk.
An ongoing cycle of renewal
adorns the grass and ground beneath.
Discarded needles and cones
cover the last remaining blades of grass.
The tree knows
how to let go of what no longer serves,
making space for new,
for the future,
letting go of the past.
I rake and collect the castaways.
I see no point in tallies or counts
for the total would near infinity.
I have needles and cones
to castaway too,
if only I could be as free
as the tree
in doing so.
Dawning Words 