I live my life through the words I write
Noticing
my wanting
to cross items off my to-do list.
Noticing
my yearning
to announce a project as complete.
Noticing
my fear
of diving into waters of vulnerability
when I feel fragile.
Noticing
my tendency
to want to do the easy things
rather than the hard and messy things.
Noticing
my hesitancy
with meeting new facets of me
and letting the old ones go.
Noticing
the discrepancies between
what I claim to desire
and the actions I take.
Noticing.
Narratives cycling over and over in my head
like records on repeat
continue playing in the background
despite attempts to press stop,
pull the power cord from the wall,
destroy the battery.
The songs keep playing.
My attempts to play a new song, or songs,
of a different genre
are acknowledged, briefly,
but cast aside in preference of the old and familiar.
Why do I do this? How?
I devote my being to this cause,
to make it through one, two, even four songs at a time,
slowly rewiring,
building comfort with new genres,
new artists.
It will take a long time
to sever and rebuild,
but I can see a light shining
on the new music, waiting to be wired into me,
and it’s beautiful.
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.
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.
If I had known then
what I know and understand now
I would have treated you better.
I know this to be true.
But that was then,
and nothing I do now
can change the way
I broke us
and broke you.
I want to run away, escape,
leave this pain behind
in my rearview mirror
and dust.
I have learned what it sought
to teach me,
know where I still need to grow
and even how pain can help.
I know this. I understand this.
But I want it to go away.
Like a flower trapped in dry soil
yearning for either a rainstorm
or a watering can,
you came to me
as a watering can,
in a rainstorm,
all at once.
Only you have no idea.
It seems easy to tell
by looking from a distance
those who live their true selves
and those who try fitting in the mold.
Those who carve their own path, through the woods,
and those who choose the one already paved.
My true self
has an axe over her shoulder
ready to create the way only meant for her
but I wonder
if the world also sees the axe shining
like I do, heavy in my hands
and my muscles quivering,
searching for strength to keep swinging.
Fight through the urge
to turn around, to succumb,
when it feels too difficult
in the moment
to push through.
Push through anyway.
Feel the initial resistance in doing so
to then revel in the pride,
and happiness,
of taking yourself beyond the hurdle.
Push through
to feel the pride.
A new color
rooted in natural with a new
hue of freshness.
Fresh ends cut
to absorb the new life around them,
time to start anew.
Sometimes the things little
expand into vast valleys
calling out for explorers
to test the new terrain.
Dawning Words 