junk drawer

Her mind was a junk drawer.  She knew better, but things just piled up.  Some useful, most not.  It interfered as she would forget the littlest thing going from room to room.  Circling, wearing a path into the floor – one might see her limited movements and mistake her for a captive animal.  No bars or locks, just her mind and her fears and the element of complacency.

The birds freed her mind from its trappings.  From inside she adored them; she watched them through the pane (they came closer this way).  Her eyes seized each one like a prize. Over and over she saw perfection in their small beaks and smooth feathers. Always a moment of magic – they existed only for her.

Her childhood was similar, she recalls, getting locked on to things (things of freedom) though never feeling free. Listening to cassettes on repeat while she searched each song for its longing; she found certainty in the repetition and familiarity even at a young age.

Her head burned, begging for fresh air.  She felt immobilized -like chains held her to this space.  What was this behavior?

Self afflicted bondage? A retreat? It had grounded her, yes, but she no longer had wings.  She abandoned them somewhere along the way, clipped them off in haste and was feeling the pains.

It was a lifelong effort growing them back and taking flight again.

Excerpt How To Grow Wings:  Awareness by Angella Meanix

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forgiveness

forgiveness

the people were individual, though it was a general feeling of being left out

anything could have turned it on – just so happened it was one picture

they presented a million faces and i could only see the one

they broke my heart, mended it and broke my heart again

a feeling of togetherness until everything spilled out

mine was theirs, theirs was mine became you keep yours and we’ll keep ours

once in, now out

forgiveness begins

born


Anything born out of fear has an undeniable birthmark.


Insidious, fear will steal your true self, bury intuition and scrap your good nature.

You struggle for sure as it grows … as it reveals it’s limited disposition, but keep it close just in case.

It’s kind of a way out every time you give in; denying possibilities, forfeiting the reigns.

Just be sure to appreciate your hard work of holding it tight and revel in all the ways it’s keeping you down and holding you back.


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marvelous you

Big or small – it doesn’t matter.

But, it has to be something you. Something by you, about you, for you, from you.

Don’t overthink it – allow and reveal some natural state you’ve masked or hidden. Find your wondrous self, your wondrous mind, your wondrous laugh, wondrous words — use them again and again.

Know your worth.

Put away all the was, were and I can’t/s. Silence your inner critic, abandon old patterns and counsel your lower nafs.

Give countenance.

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she dreamed of antlers

antlers
all grace and connection, like spiritual antennas – sky, then eyes, then ground

Be mindful – a dream is process and premonition.

Her skin broke at the crown.  Curled under pines- sweet smells and needles, the bones kept coming to breach the usual space she held.

Fed by velvet, they grew; best -nobody told them what to do.

Breathing and alive they boasted of health and healing, strength and esteem.

So much heavier than she could’ve imagined, she lifted her head to reveal them. Tangled in threads of light, she emerged.

Great receivers, they magnified and made her nauseous at first. A few deep breaths brought relief.

Everything she saw was crystal clear; unveiled secrets, no lies concealed.

Her worth was born.

Grace ousted fear.

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the strength of form | i ask Rumi …

The-strength-of-form
The mountain leads the world in form. A place to start and end.

The Strength of form

Rumi says: Listen to this story: When the soul left the body it was stopped by God at heaven’s gate: “Alas! You have returned just as you left. Life is a blessing of opportunity. Where are the bumps and scratches left by the journey?”

I ask Rumi …

They say think positive, let the vision be of yourself as if it is already. Trust. Let go. Be clear.

My hands hold each plate with marked sadness in the bod. Have I envisioned that a thousand times plates would pass through my hands? That I would stand and weep with gratitude at such a simple pleasure – admiring a singular part of my form -holding on to such wares, letting the warm water move around the thing while still making it wet?

I must have.

I ask Rumi, “What if my bumps and scratches heal before my soul leaves the bod and a quiet, gentle walk – hand-in-hand with simple pleasures – feels like a blessed opportunity? And why are there gates?”

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the ocean touches my tongue

The earth in its glory speaks to me -surrounding, following.  Stepping only forward, my body brings with it the back and sides – morning sun, dirt, sky.

Brisk“, I state out loud.

Working on that deep breath, I smile and look up. Cold wind and my eyes soak. Filled- they let go. My taut skin redirects the wet, pushing a downward path … and the ocean touches my tongue.

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