what feeds your soul?    |  ❝LIFE IS LIKE A WAVE; FLOW WITH IT.❞  ———————————— all around this world, i've been. my eyes have seen the bluest of oceans and the greenest of trees, only to spend my days mixing memories to create the perfect shades to fill in the color by number portrait of the idea of what life was to be. each number corresponding to an area of the human existence and the amount of it on the canvas, the amount i was to have. but always, there was a part of me screaming to be heard, "these are echoes of the past whispering, convincing you of what you deserve and filling your head with the idea of what you should want and need." each stroke filled with a broken vulnerability of a woman hiding away from coming alive in the glory of all her cracked perfection, a body that is more bones and questions, a bleeding poet yearning for the stars, homesick for a place she's never been, wanting nothing more than to be a student of the universe. —————— ┏ the artist having created those works of art seems to me, more like a stranger now than a soul i've known in lifetimes before, comfortable and broken in, for she wasn't who i truly am, who i truly was, who i truly wanted to be. sometimes i wonder if they're called water colors because their only vibrance comes when they are mixing with the salt flavored water of my tears drip drip dripping onto my palette, into my brush, across my canvas. how is it possible my greatest works of art come from the most emotional parts of life? i live this paradox of begging loneliness to release me while grace surrounds me. ———————————— the canvas blank before me and i, the painter, lay down my brush like it's armor in a war. the white flag of surrender waves above my head, beautiful, almost, like waves crashing into shore, though it's more like a scarlet letter of failure etched into my aura. there will be no more setting myself up for defeat. splattered the paints on the wall, a mural of letting go. and healing. and growing. and stepping into my most authentic self. ripped apart the old and every single sheet of paper in that room, made snow angels in the remnants of my past scattered on the floor. the laughter resounding beautiful in my ears, "this is what it means to be free and alive and unafraid of the future." no longer am i like a paper doll, having gut wrenching feelings pulled out of me, folding and crumpling me because someone else's dream for me never came to fruition. this is what it means to bear witness to humanity. i gather all the broken parts and build new art from the wreckage that depicts the woman i am, the woman i always wanted to be, the woman i wouldn't be without the marriage of beauty and destruction round and around, over and over again, like a ferris wheel in motion. | the next time i attempt a portrait of a picture perfect life, three bedroom house, white picket fence, happily ever after, only to realize happiness and contentment and peace is relative. the extra scene after the credits roll is different for everyone but still just as golden. ┏ so i flip the page, i start again and the dream changes faster than i'm able to paint until you join me at the easel. your hand on mine, steady and strong, delicate strokes, filled with intention, tracing the outline of tiny seeds, planted for the future. what shape they'll take, we'll never know. not until they sprout like a wildflower through a crack on a new york city sidewalk. what i come to learn about myself, deep within my heart, is that i have attempted to paint, i have attempted to color inside the lines of a world to make it feel safe and familiar but half the beauty of this thing called life is the unknown of coloring outside the lines. the first step of blind faith is the hardest but with one deep breath and my best foot forward, what else am i to do except believe there is a landing despite not knowing when it's coming? it's heart first or not at all and i'm falling head first for you. in all my years, this is a life i never imagined. (super bowl? broadway? oscars? curveballs?) but when you allow yourself room to exist without expectation, without a need for control, without disappointment when something doesn't go as planned, the tapestry you've woven comes undone and creates itself anew in a way that's far more beautiful than you could have ever possibly dreamed. ten fingers, ten toes, not my eyes or my nose, but i'll love him just the same because he's a part of you. and now i've stopped painting dreamscapes, slow motion movies from the shadows of my sleeping self spliced togther into one. these days, i paint doorways, their foundations sturdy, standing strong in solidarity with my liminality. may not know where the door leads but i know i'm on the cusp of something great. the irony here is, i do not paint. i am not an artist. that skillset was not given to me, at birth, but in a way, creating art, for me, comes in words, comes in movement, comes in existing and in knowing this is all a beautiful trip around the sun and to the moon. once upon a time, i was told, "on the rocketship to the moon, don't get so caught up that you forget to look out the window." life will pass you by in the blink of an eye. note to self: things may sometimes feel overwhelming but one thought, one breath, one day at a time.      |