I have pages and pages of poems, pieces of writing…my heart and soul poured onto paper. Sitting gathering digital dust.
Most of it will never see the light of day. The feelings captured on those virtual pages being already obsolete, but at the time feeling so real and visceral, a relief to let them spill onto the page and take some sort of shape and form, instead of remaining amorphous deadweights in my brain.
I’ve always liked the idea of moving through life gracefully, writing pretty and thought-provoking poems and making life look effortlessly beautiful, but that has not been my reality.
My ‘moving through stuff’ has invariably involved various tactics including but not limited to: complete denial of there being a problem or my being affected by such problem, ugly crying and panic attacks in various public places, friends arms and in more than one line up, and either copious amounts of angry, sad or confused writing, or complete writer’s block.
It has rarely if at all, felt graceful.
I have caught my balance, only to be thrown off kilter again at the slightest upset, and felt like I have been washed inside out by waves far bigger than I should have had the audacity to paddle out into.
And yet, I survive. Every time. I survive. No matter how ungraceful I think I’m being, no matter what it looks like to my judgemental inner critic, or to the rest of the world, I move mountains.
Huge fuck off mountains.
I have healed trauma and wounds and celebrated freedom and love with friends and family and myself.
And it doesn’t matter what it looks like. You are moving mountains too. And you will survive the heavy lifting, because this is what life looks like. This is where we learn acceptance. This is where we learn compassion. This is where we learn comfort, support….love. This is where it all is. Grace is irrelevant. … 📸: @loveluella