To survive is to fight, to split open, to cry, to persevere into the next season of a dream’s life, to detach from the root, the branch, before hope dies, to fall or fly not knowing the outcome until free, that air before the landing or opening of wings…
May I never lose my way to getting lost, may I never resist the urge to leave it all, may I never shelter my face from the storm, may I never let my arms fall in the downpour, may I never fully wash off the grit of the sand, and may I never be restrained by clock or human hand.
May I never negotiate with my soul: may I never let anyone close the window.
Illusion of control, I never really drove, not on a road trip of my own; I rode round and round, hair in the breeze, holding on to the mane of carousel dreams, never free. Now I am. But the invisible reins of pleasing so long keeps me stalled in the corral; my voice on auto-pilot agreeing with everyone else. A passenger yet. I sit quietly still looking out the windows. But in the rearview mirrors, I frame my favorite parts, and up ahead in the near distance, I see the peaks of my heart’s desires. I think I am ready to take the wheel while listening to nature on God’s behalf appeal to my soul, that home, I’ve carried all along. I only needed to use my voice to steer to where I belong. I will need to put it in park for the final leg, so I can ride bareback on my stallion away from all of them…
I will bend to please, for I put first others’ needs; overempathy makes me weak.
Forceful winds, whether intended or not, push with invisible pressure until my insides knot.
In opposite direction of secret desires, the flight I am put on with unpurchased ticket takes me higher
but farther on false wings to where I wished to be; nonetheless, I relentlessly look for the positives in my surroundings.
Rock, boulder, my anchor, my center, is never stationary. I move the mountains with the strength of your arms and my unshakable faith in the Almighty.
Bent tree. Flight path. Criss-crossing trajectories. I will bend back. I will disembark. And wherever that leaves me, I will find where the wildflowers are. And if you pluck them all, I will water the seeds in my heart.
I will persevere as me, no matter how many rounds I smartly, politely, or wearily concede. Each of those fertilize bloom potentiality.
I will grow my own wildflower fields until they rise out of me.