If fear rises, the air burns on both the inhale and the exhale.
If grief stands out, the sun’s embrace is replaced by dancing shadows.
If anger keeps the heart, thoughts are ever so slowly dragging memories by their feet.
If despair is written, shaken feelings can’t speak right.
If unhappy is succeeding, the chance of happy is quiet.
And even if only one of those is true, something different is very hard to believe in.
Because nothing hurts like colliding with all that remains.
Like being alone in what has us.
Like the outcomes that feed us.
Like the parts that still feel as if they can’t be refused.
But then despite those impressions, hope has something to say.
Despite the sorrow, it doesn’t quit on us.
Despite the inability to give any more, it finds just a little bit more.
Despite not knowing where the love goes, it’s remains as a friend.
Because possibilities help with the chats that experiences impede.
Help unfold subtle flowers in the weeds.
Help with the contradictions that arrive without permission.
Help with the days that our smiles don’t mean a thing.
For hope isn’t just a label for when we doubt.
When beautiful memories are far away.
When it gets colder and darker.
When words weaken the day.
When the content isolates us in fear.
Its the soft partner drawing the duality of us together.
The conviction that did, didn’t and yet to be is unity.
The truth that the light hasn’t been shrink-wrapped and put away when the dark speaks.
The plan that perfect colors will keep putting themselves out there.
An interesting way of giving ourselves a hug in the war and a smile in the ease.
An idea that wanders the garden with strength for all not as a performance to make unhappy feel small.
Our own determination that understands the impact of crumbling and stays open anyways.
And no matter the weather, never reads our stories exactly the same way that we do.
Hope is always available for dreams, but its real artwork lies in freeing us from the concept that we can’t choose to take our words farther than what’s already been seen.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Roaming around in our stories are words that tell us who we are.
As the reminders of the moments and marks that have shaped us.
Of their repetitive familiar speech without an on-off switch.
Of the long and messy process of our gardens.
Where details become heavy enough that change is desired.
But the gap between where hope rises and the sun shines isn’t exactly a cheery place.
Isn’t a walk without a lot of things still trying to stay attached.
Isn’t art that knows what colors paint who we want to be.
Isn’t the expected direction that holding hands with hope would imply.
And it never mentions that, on multiple occasions, support will run out of supplies.
Never gives away how easy it will be to turn around as the sand gets deeper.
Never shares that silence and noise are also heavy.
Never tells us that before there can be an after, there is the desert of becoming.
The place where dreams urge us to hurry and fear is afraid we won’t make it out.
Where navigating the rain has to somehow be even better than on the clearest of days in the before.
Where the main character isn’t replaced but slowly diluted with care for the battles as well as the beauty.
For the words that have been freer with despair than ease.
For the shadows that have never felt special.
For the highlights that have felt so underestimated in their photoshoots.
Because after isn’t just colored from a day that’s been turned.
Isn’t movement that our choreography has approved of yet.
Isn’t a neat box where struggles will remain gathering dust.
So until we get there, the rigid system has to learn to relax.
Different has to practice painting potential.
Memories have to stop turning us against ourselves.
Falling has to take its job seriously in calling out safety over its vulnerability.
And worthy has to be on the move to support the before and the middle to supply the after.
Words make us feel some way and while they don’t always feel friendly, they are always the companions open to strategy when we are with them.
To expand and contract communication so that the narrative of who we believe we are doesn’t detour us in becoming the person closer in sight to who we want to be.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Flowers are never just flowers but it’s hard to take our minds off of the relief that they bring.
Weeds are never just weeds but it’s hard to take our minds off of the disbelief that they bring.
In how their silly little moments and the ones we fall crying into are never really free.
In how the give and take is never quite what we would like it to be.
Or in how ideas of perfect views just happen to come from making wrong turns.
When smiles have been helping to keep pain from making a scene.
When souvenirs land as they do and the balance is off.
In being suspended between happy and unhappy.
In the way that grief is being heard while joy sits out of sight watching.
Because its harder than we think when “being” sticks to everything including us.
In the red of anger that’s hoping to be used more in the name of love.
In the chaos and fear of being the writer and the main character.
In wondering about flowers while being in the diversity of gardens.
In trying to control storms by being happy.
Creating limits in the ache but the colors as well.
Packing feelings with and without the presence of surviving.
Giving and hindering support under a label.
Because being is never just being but it’s hard to take our minds off of the relief it brings.
Because being is never just being but its hard to take our minds off of the disbelief it brings.
How very real feelings sing in the cracks of being weeds.
How very real feelings breath deeply in being flowers.
And how being uses its umbrella with the same intention for rain as it does for sunshine.
But if we know ourselves in the destinations of being then becoming treasures us in the monologue that being cannot keep us indefinitely.
In how we can be red with anger and turn the page to become softly folded into the red that gently paints love.
In the moments that laughter balances a smile just long enough for joy to become the relief that pain experiences.
And in the adventures that never have anything to do with hopes or dreams.
Looking back, its funny how easy it was to muddy artwork, when flowers were just flowers and weeds were just weeds and being was the exhausting side of the trail we kept our eyes on.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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