Every week or two I go see a therapist, because it’s a great touchstone for me. When I start to lose perspective, she can tell me that I am being just a little cray-cray. Today, I felt I got to the heart of some things by talking to her about how blocked I felt in trying to shift to more positivity. It’s so easy to focus on the negative when you’re stressed out.
She suggested I try a gratitude journal. It might take weeks or months of daily writing, she said, but just taking a few minutes each day to write down what I’m grateful for would, over time, shift my focus so that I thought more about the good and positive things. Less about the negative, the problems.
I won’t post about it here every day, because that would be cray-cray. But I thought I’d get started here.
Early this morning, as I read about baby milestones, I realized how grateful I am to have two healthy babies, reaching every milestone. Immense gratitude.
I have so much gratitude for this, in fact, that it has filled my cup for the day. Here’s hoping for more blinding moments of revelation and thanks, and that they become second nature.
went dancing in the yard, took counsel from the stars
filled my cup with night, took sips
to keep me soft around the edges.
the oldest magic in the world is hidden in my belly,
ripening again like the moon.
one more month the fruit drops to the ground, i take no bite.
The sun is sinking like a fat
yellow god through the leaves,
warm and glowing green
from the the life he brings
as his gift and his toll for passing through this world
where he longs to be seen.
His true home is void and empty,
and the beings here are so many and so close together.
Ironic how he craves warmth
when he is the hottest thing in the galaxy.
As you strode deeper and deeper into the world,
you kept tugging at the strings dangling from the old wounds
on your heart,
felt it seize at the whisper of the knife slashing down again, and again, saw pale fingers gripping the dark handle.
You stumbled down the littered path,
stared into the dark until you trick out its wiliest secret:
the hand is yours. The knife too.
And only you may choose to put it down for good.
Dear Universe, I offer my whole heart to you.
It is no sacrifice.
It is an offering.
I worried myself to the edge. The coil at my heart wound so tight it would not loosen a fraction of an inch.
The being that calls itself me feared not being me anymore.
The cessation of thought meant the end of existence.
I believed my worry held up the universe.
Inside became too thick with thought,
so I took my fear outside, and
realized I was outside,
with the cool breeze carrying cool rain through the trees, onto my arms and face.
In the moment I realized that I am always provided for,
the lightning answered first. Then the thunder
(finally, she gets it, they seemed to say).
I’m using old NaPoWriMo posts to keep things fresh and to stay sane while I’m away at “document review camp”. This prompt is: use as your first line the first line of a famous poem. I also put in another little bit of the e.e. cummings poem I borrowed from.
Since feeling is first,
let us meet the storms with open arms.
Thoughts will race, charged,
through nerve and brain, but
let the lightning be reflected in our eyes.
Let the blood surge and the heart leap,
and let the tears run their course.
The order of the modern world has
impressed itself upon us,
and we have been trained to observe
But the life of the mind has kept us
in time and out of our animal bodies.
Can you learn to love kisses more than wisdom?
Or are they the same thing?
Ummmm…let’s just call this Day 30 of NaPoWriMo…now that it’s almost June. 🙂
I never doubt the reason in what I see, anymore.
I’ve picked up the pattern and studied its weaving.
In everything there is meaning.
Years I spent observing that the threads were too loose, or the colors all wrong,
when all along, I was missing my role.
The goal is clear seeing, not attaching feeling.
My thoughts were judgments: restrictive.
I was meant to be a witness, admire the hues for their richness.
I found the pattern pointless, till I stepped back and looked up.
This tapestry was made by a much larger hand than mine, with an infinitely larger eye to behold it.
Each turn of the needle has drawn my eye to the place where I was meant to look.
I am no weaver. I am a reader. A seeker.