I live my life through the words I write
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.
When you start shifting your attention
to water the flowers you want to bloom,
things change
within you, and around you.
Shifts bring change.
They allow us to see, envision,
a world different from what we lived before.
Change can feel uncomfortable
and in discomfort
we seek to find comfort,
maybe back in the place we came from.
Running backwards is not the answer
we need,
or actually want.
What if
the new world you see before you
is where you’re meant to be?
Listen,
as it releases a deep exhale,
rustling a gentle breeze across your skin,
extending its arms to welcome you
here.
This world, this new world,
has been waiting for you.
All I can do
is listen to my body
listen to her screams and shouts
her whimpers and protests
her laughter and joy
her inhales and exhales.
If I listen
she will tell me what I need to know.
To slow down enough
for it all to catch up;
the stress, the sleepless nights,
the self-neglect,
means sitting with the pain
for a while
until it dissipates.
I will meet you in the discomfort
of stillness,
where distractions are forcibly removed,
leaving no alternative option
but to stay here, in the stillness,
until it becomes comfortable.
It would be all to easy to cast blame,
deflect this on to you,
say it’s your fault, you started this.
If I had not met you
this would not be happening.
Easy,
but unjustified.
No, it’s more than that.
This beast had been hibernating out of sight
for some time,
and chose to show its face
when you were there.
I knew of its existence
and shudder at my naivete
in believing it could hibernate forever.
But all that doesn’t matter now,
all that back story
and circumstances.
What matters is now,
it is awake, and here.
I either find a way to tame it,
or get eaten alive.
When I wrote about you
I hardly had to think at all.
Words appeared on the paper
as if from nowhere,
or a power higher and stronger than myself.
Flowing like a river downstream
I had no choice but to follow it,
with words to describe you, us,
in hundreds of ways
sweeping me with the current.
I am out of the current now.
There may be peace in calm, cool water
but also discomfort.
I wish not to write of you any longer,
but I cannot find words for anything else.
Dawning Words 