the year of letting go, of understanding loss.
of the word ‘no’ and also being able to say ‘you are not kind’.
the year of humanity/humility.
when the whole world couldn’t get out of bed.
everyone i’ve met this year, says the same thing ‘you are so easy to be around,
how do you do that?’.
the year i broke open and dug out all the rot with my own hands.
the year i learnt small talk.
and how to smile at strangers.
the year i understood that i am my best when i reach out and ask ‘do you want to be my friend?’.
the year of sugar, everywhere. softness. sweetness.
the year of being alone, and learning how much i like it.
the year of hugging people i don’t know, because i want to know them.
the year i made peace
I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us.
We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content. We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret. We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand.
We like to walk along the beach, we are drawn by the ocean, taken by its power, its unceasing motion, its mystery and unspeakable beauty. We like forests and mountains, deserts and hidden rivers, and the lonely cities as well.
Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter. To share our sadness with one we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know – unless it be to share our laughter.
We searchers are ambitious only for life itself, for everything beautiful it can provide.
Most of all we love and want to be loved.
We want to live in a relationship that will not impede our wandering, nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls; that will take us for what little we have to give. We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.
for lonely men and women who dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful.
It is for those who are too gentle to live among wolves.
We can live. By all means, live. Wake up, eat cereal, walk, work, talk, eat, sleep, live. I know I can accomplish great things when I live. I can get a bonus, have a relationship, read a book. Read 100 books. Hell, write a book.
Or, we can Live (did I lose you?).
We can fall in love. Or fall in Love over and over again, and without fear or apology.
Be fascinated by the freckles that make each day staggeringly complex and different. And similar.
We can listen. Or Listen with true openness and tolerance. To even the intentions spoken between words and without speech. Not just to those we understand with ease, but also those whose actions we will never understand.
And to those who are no longer with us, and exist instead in the slowdancing of snowfalls. And cherry Chapstick.
The only thing that’s constant is change, and we feel safer to resist impermanence. So, we can live. Or Live and open ourselves, as petals, and remain passionately curious.
We don’t have to push against nature to find joy. It wants to present itself to us on a path that requires the least effort.
Even after a harsh winter, when the ground is frozen and inanimate, the flowers do not struggle to blossom. They simply reach up and open their petals.
Much like how we can open ourselves up (easily, gracefully) to joy and peace, when we turn our awareness to the possibility of a perfect outcome. Instead of closing ourselves (painfully, rigidly) with fear and insecurity.