I had thoughts about joining another blog challenge this month, and decided I have too many things to focus my attention on rather than attempt to conjure up words for an entire month.
I need to slowly move through my edits on my second book. There is a lot of energy pulling my attention in too many directions and showing up for my book and my page like that is the best thing I can do right now.
I took myself to the farmer’s market after a beautiful yoga class and decided I needed to turn something over intentionally as well as literally. I bought a replacement succulent.
I have three others that seem to be doing well, but probably need to be transplanted to bigger spaces for more room to breathe. I asked the vendor at the market for a little extra advice, since succulents aren’t typically my thing, and she offered me much needed advice.
My poor lavender is not meant for apartment dwelling these days. I have been in my new place for two months and she was on her last legs, unable to get enough sun in a basement apartment. I took her outside and planted her in the earth where she belongs.
One thing always returns to itself.
Either way, the earth is back home to herself. May she take or give as much that is left in the season of that particular plant.
I do not have a dedicated place to plant seeds or seedlings these days and that ritual was nourishing in such an unexpected way.
May she find her way back to herself in a good way.
I’m brought to a scene from Moana at the end, and I am holding back revealing a particular part, because of how powerful and impactful it was, in case any of the readers haven’t seen the actual movie.
Either way, I am reminded how important it is to have something restored to us that has been taken.
As the seasons keep turning another page, and the year moves to a place of taking stock of what’s been planted and what’s been harvested from intention, work, or prayer, I spend time with plants in my home.
I have a handful of plants that I am attempting to care for in an apartment. My only reference point at plant care has been in wild open ground with access to weather, soil, sunshine, and visits from critterfolk passersby.
I have three sets of different plants. All of them seem to be suffering in some capacity. This is outside of familiar territory for me to understand what to do. I feel a little helpless and forget the early stages of my original garden. Some things made it and some things didn’t.
That is always the metaphor in life, intentions, prayer, and work. Life moved me away from my original garden. Choice moved me away from my original garden. Necessity moved me away from a place I called home.
I flounder looking for ways to recreate a sense of nurturing things outside of me that bring me peace.
Taking care of beauty in a space it is not made for does not bring me peace. Just more discomfort at knowing that this spot on the page in my life everything feels constrictive. My voice. My writing. My connections. My understanding of love, in its weird and wild ebb and flow. When life feels constrictive I try to find words to articulate.
Oppressive. Suffocating. Dim. Deficit.
Too many words can lead me to a place of forgetting. I need to turn on the light. I need just as much sunshine as these suffering plants.
I have tried to take on their fate as my responsibility, as well as their ability to thrive. It’s a heavy burden to try and force things alive in places they are not environmentally meant to. That’s a heavy burden to burn into my hands, as if what happens is my fault because I am attempting to keep something of beauty awake in conditions that are set against success.
My lavender- I have had several harvests
I have to understand my intention, above all else. Circumstances outside of myself have impacted these lives, and my work and dedication is probably the only thing that has kept them alive. They cannot water themselves. They cannot take themselves in away from frost or snow. They cannot move themselves outside into direct sunlight. They depend on me, and I am working my best to help them.
I remember how my heart burst alive when my lavender would thrive so wonderfully in my garden. I would sit for hours, coffee in hand, and just take in the beauty of the day- the promise that felt alive in and around me. The rush of butterflies or blue jays that would pay a visit while I was weeding or watering. The secret found objects like a hidden ladybug standing at the precipice of a sunflower leaf, as if considering its next move- fly or search for sustenance.
I remember my microcosm with great fondness, and am saddened when I look at these new plants.
It’s not the same. Not nearly the same. An attempt is always an attempt. What is meant to thrive needs the right conditions to match the needs.
One’s hands can only do so much.
It reminds me to invest time and energy into something that maybe I can see more ROI from. Something I can feel a deep success in knowing that it is thriving. Is this a place of dipping my toes into something new and tucking away a pasttime that brought me joy for another day meant for better circumstances. I want to feel the electric moment of knowing something is turning out good amidst my hard work. I need to see the fruits of my labors paying something back.
In this place I feel that my efforts have siphoned me more than offered me peace. In this place I feel the burden of wanting my needs met by something that I invest my time in. In this place I feel the need to be nurtured by things that I nurture in return. I claim reciprocity as my new pivot point. Giving like this feels too heavy.
Creativity tapped me on the shoulder and told me a story about itself and where it’s at.
If I were to personify my fiction series, it would be a maiden sitting with me at the fire, inviting me to engage in a conversation to just sit quiet and listen. It has things to teach me. More than just grammar and punctuation these days.
I have attempted to approach the fire many a time, only to be greeted by strangers who are looking to take her story instead. Too many onlookers. Too many thieves in the woods trying to gather what does not belong to them.
She’s been in hiding…afraid to whisper the secrets of the story to come.
Sometimes she comes in bursts of song and she embraces me with this beauty and unfolds and unfurls and I have to get her voice onto the page as soon as possible…
She whispered to me today, “I’ve been scared of coming out. I’ve been scared of sharing my voice right now. I’ve been scared of what would happen if I open up and too many people with these prying hands- what they will do to me. I feel the world will tear me apart if it’s not just you and I in this moment. Can it be just you and I in this moment so I can tell you my secrets instead of the rest of the world?”
What do you say in return when your creativity runs shy into hiding? “Please come out! There are people waiting!”
The roar of uncertainty pressed my face to the mirror.
I calmly asked, in a space of questions and riddles ” What do I truly see here? What is unmasked? What is unmarked?”
The only reply I received was the reflection. You are too intense for understanding. Tears streamed past the blurred lines of vision. I will never be able to see myself here.
When I travel through my days I have this version, this lens, that leads me. I feel wholly complete , even in my imperfections. I feel abundant hope and a shining within.
But inside the maze of the mirror, I often get lost.
Silence won when winning didn’t matter. When tearing through difficulty with words left me more mute than before. Silence won when trepidation pushed me to voice opinion and opinion sliced me to the bone with cold quiet apathy in return. Silence won when I thought words mattered. When I needed them to matter. When I thought time was on my side.
Silence won in a place of being defeated by everything around me. For I can turn off the whirlwind and find quiet no matter what spins around me.
Silence won when I wanted words to pierce or piece together. I wanted an instead, but silence offered something else. I can tangle or untangle in the what is. I will my way through these obstacles of fate anyway, so might as well do both.
Settling into the swimming currents of quiet, I can find I float if I just let go and get buoyant once again. It’s time I rise and gather what I know and pack it away.
My joy is pierced in this moment. A tapestry of words falls underneath me like decaying leaves- what will become nourishing in the days to come? My throat has been cut by anger into a thousand spears aimed at nothing. Aimed at the rushing within. I tug at all ugliness to reveal a sheath of misunderstanding. I need to release in expression, but my hands take nothing but the wheel. I need to release, but everything outside of me is siphoning the essence of my beauty.
The cobwebs of creative energy are not as dormant as I imagined. Crawling through a tempest of darkness, I find myself. Writhing. Standing. Joining. Rank after rank, the army of illusion builds an inescapable retreat.
I am beckoned to return to a splayed position of questioning, flanked by the ancestors of doubt and fear. What is Source? Am I aligned with the things that design my tear in two? Am I spilled open into a thousand fears of the past? Do I hold myself sovereign with bit and reign? Do the things that aim to run wild and free within me stop me cold in my tracks?
I have sliced my own tongue with talking. I have been cut with remembering. Things from the past rise up on the daily and I am forced to do what exactly?
Fall away into shadow?
I call on the power within me to strengthen my faith in every step away from what no longer serves and remember who I am in all of this.
What decision faces me in this moment? I return to the place of the Unknown- the place where I tighten my grip and hold fast to the control button. Push or release?
Surrounded by a need to invoke love, I fight everything that pulls my attention toward the anger. I do not wish harm, and yet I do not know where to aim all of this poison? Do I drink it myself?
I do not want to be a vessel for other people’s actions or inactions that have crossed me. I do not want to be storage space for rage.
I have identified certain things that threaten me. Certain aspects of vampirism haunt me- remind me not to drape myself in prideful assumptions that the power within me does not need to be wielded with great care and precision.
I will truly fall away into darkness if I forget my smallness, for that which invokes me to rise up into power reminds me in that very moment, my power impacts the lives of others. How do I choose to use it, like this moment?
Do I return to a place of right size?
What is my right size, for things and circumstance have me wax and wane according to what draws from my strengths or weaknesses in each moment. For I am pushed to recoil or pushed to step out into the light of my purpose- but I must always ask- what do I do with this?
How can I align with humility or power in a way where I am responsible for the ripple effect I have out in the world.
My wonder often gets trapped by misguided hands, but I have to ask, do I offer that too freely in the first place, thinking that I know how they will treat the gift of I Am.
I release myself from a prison with a key I draw up within myself. The Divine within me walks me toward the answers I have known all along.
This feels like another day where I have to calculate and measure words accordingly. If I were to select a handful, what would they be? Would the be kind? Necessary? For the highest good for all involved?
I think about a handful of silence and what I can do with that. I can cut myself on it with ambiguity. I can move into restless rumblings and attempt to take the wheel of every circumstance around and inside of me because #ihatepowerlessness. For me, silence brings in a heavy sense of powerlessness.
I sit with that for a moment.
It could be an opportunity to sink deeply inward and find stillness and peace. It could be used to listen intently to the world around me and really hear what it has to say. But for me, silence equals a connection to a wound and I have a hard time sitting still in it. And I’m a Buddhist, so that’s a fun path.
Words and silence are in my hands, while in a place of waiting. Waiting for so many things to offer a clear and definite answer.
Is this the way? Is that? Is this the solution or a place of more destruction?
I will walk gently with this silence, as if I am carrying a small baby bird fast asleep in my palm. I do not wish to disturb anything with my hands anymore.