Healing isn't linear
It's obvious when we say it,
but it slips our mind as we are blinded
by the steep walls and cliffs
of the mountain ahead.

Cliffs waiting to be scaled
looking insurmountable
Turning to find another path
feels like turning back to quit.

Spending a night in the midst of the deep foliage,
vines twining around limbs, digging thorns into our spines
Feels not like a rest before fighting another day
but falling into a sleep that will never end.

But eventually
winding and twisting and
climbing up boulders, then
sliding back in the gravel
only to do it again
and again

The summit will appear over the edge,
and the sun will rise on your first day
on the top of the mountain
above the weight of all those memories.

You will still find thorns in your shoes
every now and then,
but you will always be able to look back
at the great mountain that you climbed
the great trials that you faced
and find pride in what you have overcome.

Does everyone feel like
Happiness requires discipline,
Or is it just me?

Truthfully, we are our actions
Not our accomplishments.
We exist in
Being
Not in doing.
In living the same day
As every day,
In having happiness in each repetition
And not trapping our contentment
Beyond the horizon,
We can finally be
Happy.

There's beauty, a peace
in discovering
tiny steps

Satisfaction in the small goals,
the close goalposts
the list of checkmarks

There is peace
In lowering the expectations
but not the goal
In lessening the pressure, the blame, that
cycle of shame
So that even if the speed slows,
it never fully stops moving

Progress
Healing
is not linear

Tiny steps
That never quit
Will overcome every setback,
Every rewind,
Every mistake
Tiny steps are what keep us moving
And faith is what takes us to the end.

I am neither here nor there, in
Limbo, my next step postponed
Stranded halfway across the river
I lean down to taste the water
It is full of salt.

Forty days and forty nights
But there is no sign of rain
Or what comes after.

I wonder if I am meant to wait for the ferryman
Or if, when the tide releases me
The path I will walk
Will lead me to Hades on my own.

Three raps on the door
Why not four?
Who comes to knock at this hour? they say
But is it late, or early?

What are you wearing?
How is the weather?
It doesn’t matter much, if you’re under a stoop
you will be sheltered from the rain
Unless, of course,
the sky is clear
But if sunlight or the moon is at your back,
I have no clue.

But you do.

Who comes to knock? they say
Who are you?

Are you merely the name you are called to?
If that, then what else are you?
Besides the names, the words,
the thoughts
others hold inside their heads

Refracted reflections of
fleeting conversations,
like passing notes
Only mere simple impressions
of the very person you spend every day,
every hour,
every minute walking alongside.

The knock comes again,
at your door.
Who are you?

Returning
is like donning an old, familiar cloak
Heavy, and somehow still warm
though it hasn’t been worn,
despite its wear,
in ages.

The years under my eyes
slip off my shoulders, like
rolling drops of rain
As decades of a different kind
settle in my mind,
Feeling like wisdom might
though it could just as well be
simple vanity.

I imagine myself to be
different,
Not arrogant enough to envision
what I ought to be,
But merely something better, at least
than what the mirror sees.

I avoid looking at my reflection.
I hold my breath
like plunging under water
when I turn to face the miles remaining
that I must tread
a second time.

The ice, that ice-
It chills me to the bone
As I sink under,
it freezes my lungs
and paralyzes the breath inside them-

And yet, I pull the coat around me tighter,
smelling of mothballs from the back of the closet
digging my nails into the fur fabric
I force my eyes to open.

Beyond the darkness I imagined,
there is, of course, still light:
From between my lashes, I glimpse myself
and find I am still, no longer trembling-
And though I am not beautiful,
and even this curious look
somehow exposes every piece of me
which lacks perfection
And I remember what it used to be
And

I take a breath,
I let the surface of the water calm.
I reach deep inside for comfort,
and meet the small voice
who trusts I can return there again.
Maybe I will be wiser the second time around.

How much does it take to grow,
and change?
How much does it take to stay open?

Time, effort, pain -
People will only believe you
if you can prove it hurt to get there

But to not become jaded
To avoid the tarnish that comes with
washing, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails
a thousand times over

Remember to polish and shine
preserve the tenderness in your soul
Keep your heart open and kind
even as you gain strength to protect your own.