Please excuse the French, but it can. Gosh I’ve been missing writing on here. I notice my writing has taken a turn for the Different. I’m doing morning pages and writing and writing when I can muster the energy or the motivation, but there’s a poetic element and a free flowing element that’s come from writing now. It’s lush. But it don’t make any freakin sense. I think that’s why I haven’t been writing on here because what I long to spill out, and what I do spill out in my journal, is a load of words joined together by beauty and pain and confusion and fragility, under the blanket of poetic chaos. And I think it’s bringing a whole lotta healing too. Emotional and mental decluttering, rather than trying to make sense all the time. Instead let the creative juices completely flow.
There’s been something important and sacred about keeping the words for me. About keeping the words next to me, close. In this fragile and tender, and fucking messy, time, it’s like I need all I can get that’s MINE. I need my own independence and my own private something. And part of that has been writing. In whatever shape or form it comes out in. And it’s felt beautiful. It’s felt sad but it’s felt beautiful that I’ve been giving myself the daily gift of writing and keeping the words only for myself. No longer needing affirmations from readers or people I share it with – just my own self is enough. Nature has been the other thing I am just completely craving. Me and noone else, just Nature. Because she belongs to me just as much as I belong to her. At this time in my life it’s the only relationship that feels balanced, and even then not to the extent I would like or needs to be.
At the moment it’s like my need for my bubble of protection is OH SO great. Where I’m living isn’t MINE as I just had to move house to a temporary place. What I’m doing isn’t AT ALL where I want to be. I can’t do hardly anything for myself except basic life needs and actually only just am able to do that. Constantly having to prioritise moment to moment, constantly having to put my basic needs for survival in front of needs to thrive and allow my heart to sing. Because in the moments I fuck off responsibilities and just go use my precious energy to sit in the woods or have a little dance, I come back and haven’t got food cooked so end up in a sugar dip and stressed, haven’t got the energy or the pain-free-ness to run a bath or do my washing or get properly dressed. But, I’ve learnt to prioritise and sometimes just feeling HUMAN and alive and GROUNDED is the most important thing. Sometimes that’s going into the woods and coming back to crackers from bed for dinner. Other times it’s looking at the woods through the window and making myself a big pot of wholesome stew. Both options, at the right time, are like medicine. At the ‘wrong’ time, they bring essences of self destruct.
It FUCKING SUCKS. As you can tell by all the capital letters. No words can quite describe how much. Even typing this I realise how little I’ve actually put my hands up in the air and said how SHIT this is. I’ve rolled with it. I’ve cried, I’ve shared the pain, I’ve moaned a fair bit but I’ve most of the time then softened it, softened it, with positive sounding talk. But I REALLY have not done enough of the complaining and yelling, like I deserve. It’s partly because I just feel too overwhelmed with just how awful it feels. And is. Of course, there’s beauty to be found in it and I always will do that, nature being the main source of that. But I’m giving myself permission to say that this is totally shit.
It’s ironic really that I’ve found myself in a cabin in the woods because I’d gotten to the point that I was and am SO OVER being dependent on other people, my heart was just singing for independence again. Only problem is, I’M NOT FUCKING CAPABLE OF INDEPENDENCE. But, I AM capable of the certain basic levels of independence that I can give myself. And that, is a gift.