Fear resides on both sides, in the direct sun and in the borderless shadows; the light, however, competes with mine, so my soul still remains largely unexposed.
I unzip my skin behind the bushes and dip into the sea of all that I am and all that I have yet to be,
a flame underwater, inextinguishable, no longer chained to the illusion of drowning; I dive deeper in belief of my self and arise, wet and glowing.
In my new skin, a more comfortable fit, I swirl together the sun and shadows as I dance, and the flickering upon my upturned face reveals another transformation taking place within.
Some set off to find themselves; some say wherever you go, there you are. Some never choose paths to explore but remain stagnant, wishing upon stars.
(But stars are evermoving, taking those wishes with them, beckoning the dreamer to follow the paths constellationly charted.)
I set off with no objective, but upon returning, the self-reflection (thoughts actually in the clouds!) made me realize about myself that I am exactly who I thought I’ve already found.
It’s the lightest I’ve ever felt upon returning, for now, to the ground.
Reinvention of the self, a mosaic, from pieces forged and discovered– some to be polished, painted, others best with the coatings of dust and dirt.
Have you found yourself?
I’ve been rethinking this concept lately. For me, I have never really been looking for myself but rather my home, that place where I feel completely welcome, where I am already accurately and wholly known, where I can be completely, freely me, where I’ve been missed, where it makes sense, where it feels just right. My soul has always been restless. As a girl and teen, I always felt different, in a sense, like I couldn’t really relate to others. I think because I was always thinking, philosophizing, dreaming. Feeling seemed to be my superpower–not in sensitivity but in depth. I have always thought and felt too deeply about things. I have always been an old soul, have always felt like I’m just not in the right time period or realm.
An example of this–well, I think I wrote a poem about it once. Let me grab it… Here it is:
Freckle Constellation
This group of freckles on my forearm has me mooning, time-warping to childhood…
Funny how even then, felt like these freckles meant something, seemed like a constellation, a coding, a knowing, a piece of the puzzle of me.
Funny how even then when we would travel at night in the station wagon, I pondered if the street lights spelled out a message that you could only see from a distance…
Funny how even then I would get lost in my own philosophical thoughts, felt a bit out of sorts when others seemed so content splashing in shallow waters when I was so anxious to explore the depths of the sea.
Now at 44, I find myself mulling over those same mysteries, a calling to me, a profound knowing that there’s not only so much more, but somehow that so much more involves me, and not passively.
Do I believe in destiny? Perhaps partially.
I feel like I was born to love but also to defend, sword in hand…
I wonder how my story will end.
I look for clues in the freckle tattoo…
(04/06/18)
Yep, that definitely fits right in with my current contemplation… I think it’s a combination for me of looking for my place–my home–and also myself. For a while now, I’ve just assumed that I would not find this internal place and peace in this life, and that was okay with me; I have always intended to make the most of it. But lately, I am finding that I am actually getting very close. I am finding along the way pieces of myself. I just don’t know if it is a mosaicking process of creating myself or if it is a collection of clues that lead to myself. I like the idea of both.
This all came up this evening because I was looking at some pictures of wildflowers I recently took, lol (see what I mean about getting lost in thought?…) Wildflowers speak to my soul, plain and simple. The meeker, the smaller, the more tattered, the more beautiful to me, the stronger the pull, the more complex the silent stories… White/ivory flowers have the same kind of spiritual effect on me. Framing fragile, wild “weeds” in the first or last rays of the day… that is my soul in a photograph. Just something about it… a piece, a clue, for sure.
I have a very strong connection to nature. It’s where I prefer to be. It’s where I feel I belong. I would rather watch the clouds all day and all night than do any of those things others like to do. That makes me a freak to some, I suppose; my family makes fun of me for it. While most flocked to tourist attractions over spring break, I lived the dream: poetry, photography, and nature. At home. Lots of pajama time. Lots of coffee and tea. (Hence the abundance of posts on Sunday, my last day to indulge in my hobbies before work began again.) Although I am rather socially fearless and can easily be the life of a party, I would rather be home alone doing my own thing. I think I would be quite content as a hermit, preferably a writer in a small, cozy cottage amidst diverse nature.
So wildflowers are a clue along the trail of myself, or the trail home, or a piece I choose to include in my “me” mural.
past the flower beds I seek colors of the wild to appease my soul
I sit for a while let my inner light visit no place like this home
(double haiku)
The morning after writing this post, I discovered my friend’s beautiful video capturing one of his “children’s” books (with his gorgeous artwork and inspired by his dear chickens). It made me cry. And the timing and relevance…so special. Please do take a moment to be moved. Please do yourself the favor of enjoying more of John’s work and soul: https://mylifewithgracie.com/2021/03/20/a-read-beside-me-book-video/
The theme seems to be on repeat in my poems and prayers, on repeat even after all of these years.
How can a soul feel so gypsy-like? Am I just too connected to some other source of life, to an invisible umbilical chord still tied, too aware that none of this is being done right, the meaning and purpose of this hourglass-time?
Am I to be searching, actively roaming, or is it the going that keeps me from knowing
or being found?
Is it that I must in the stillness sit to hear feel the direction in which I should shift
inward bound?
My soul is restless but more at peace than ever; perhaps I am nearing or about to remember
my self.
Perhaps the journey is not in evolution but in reverting, returning, shedding all of the artificial
shells.
If I expose my soul to you, and you expose your soul to me, I wonder if each other’s homes we would find our selves to be.
The weather inevitably has blown some of my hanging-flower petals about. There is a bloom that seems to have become one with my patio table. This is what I saw in it…
Sometimes, we become filled
with negativity
planted and watered by others
despite our desire
to be pure and free,
voices that internally scream
and override
fading beliefs,
transplanting them
with false seeds
and roots that
rot the soil
way down deep.
But sometimes,
a seed in shining armor comes
and whispers as it lies down
and stubbornly
refuses to leave
despite our pleas,
concerned for its safety,
for it surely
cannot survive
in this shady, weedy,
rocky quarry.
But the seed won’t leave.
The seed blooms white
with a pink, fuzzy center
and somehow its
delicacy and whispers
stick,
not in a sappy way
you want washed off,
but like the soft scent
that distracts you enough
from the stench,
that you find yourself
indeliberately drawing near it,
not clinging
but preferring it,
and the whispers
rub off
a bit from the petals
into your depths,
deeper than the evil roots
to the center of you
before the application of that supposed fertilizing
Laura Denise 