give back your heart, to itself

The time will come
When, with elation,
You will greet yourself arriving
At your own door, in your own mirror,
And each will smile at the other’s welcome.

And say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine.
Give bread.
Give back your heart
To itself, to the stranger who has loved you

All your life, whom you ignored
For another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

The photographs, the desperate notes,
Peel your image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
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Derek Walcott.

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perfectionism and where the socks go

Perfectionism will drive you insane.

Its nagging oppression goes on and on. Even as I consciously refuse to listen, the sound is somehow heard, like a gong sending vibrations in ripples that spread through my body. Countless parameters and rules, the likes of which are so engrained I fear that I could not even articulate what I so systematically follow. No, it’s probably a blessing that I cannot go on to tell you about each of these rules, because you don’t have time for that. Even if you did, you would likely end up batty enough to sell all your stuff and drink straight whiskey from the cat dish.

The purpose of perfectionism is to trap you and forever keep you from being the person you’re here to be. It wants to straight-jacket your authentic self. Perfectionism will tell you to colour inside its lines, or else… You’ll never fail? You’ll never be hurt or rejected? You’ll never die? You will. We all will. You just won’t have as much fun doing it.

Perfectionism tells me that it will keep me warm and safe, completely in control. But, when I am adhering to restrictions that keep me incomplete and unsatisfied in my own life, I control nothing. Here’s me in control – At one point there were two red socks, and two pink socks. That is all I need to know:

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But, if you do know where the socks went, please advise.

praise yourself

My body is a vessel.
When nourished, it yields good health. My heart pumps, my lungs fill and empty, and fill again.
When educated, ideas bloom and I can create. I articulate thoughts, I speak, I make decisions.
I blink and sneeze. I can jump and run, read and write. And rest. I can dance. I can be witty. I can hear and see, taste and think. I can feel.
My body is a vessel – it carries me.

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