Inside Colors #411

Shaky lines will be written from the mechanics of what it has meant to be us.

From apologies said out loud and whispered so that no one can hear them.

From the preservation of what’s been for sure and that which is still unsure.

And from the discomfort of destabilizing things that may or may not last.   

Words will be spoken that dilute the truth and cut straight through to it.

That signal what feels warm and safe.

That unite and divide even the silence.

And that create questions about how courage could possibly be in our own stories.

Colors will vibe as marks and love that sings. 

Will go first without asking.

Will fail to paint flowers as desired and are a little too accurate when it comes to weeds.

And will be a blessing in the black, the white and the gray.

All because storylines hold a vulnerability that doesn’t come naturally and sensations that we don’t feel built for.

Hold lost and found as a location in the sadness where happiness is missing as well as the other way around.

Hold fear as a door to close off beauty even though lovely doesn’t follow the rulebook of shame’s game.

And hold art that pulls in the dark, the light and every call to be happy in between.

All for the honesty of the pain and what we have or will be doing with it.

For the amount of times the colors haven’t backed down when shoring up a word in our stories.

For the invitations of affection that favor us even when our discomfort is at war with those needs. 

And for the label of wisdom that falls, wrong ways and slowdowns get listed under. 

All since we live with twists and turns that don’t always put our best parts in the sentences.

That dance in the dust, the silence and experiences.

That have moments worthy of laughing so hard that tears flow.

And that walk with hope and possibilities even in the disbelief and confusion.

There’s something about all of those spaces and the colors from exploring them.

The language that speaks before we have even arrived somewhere.

The features that keep us as a captive audience.

And the dependence that creates more dependence.  

Yet we aren’t the story; we are where it plays out. 

Where its possible to rebel against whatever tries to tell us that we aren’t strong enough.

Where the sky is still blue up above the storm just like hope is.

And where a particular word remains engaged while knowing us equally in the harm and the joy.

The area we find ourselves in now has a kind of familiarity to it through language that doesn’t like us and dragons that follow us around.

Familiar, though, isn’t a repeat of limited capabilities, but the opportunity to get closer to understanding inside colors and the words they shore up along the way.   

Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell

Show and Tell #410

What a thing it is to have pages with lines that most often feel heavy rather than easy.

Art wired to be qualified for the motto of overwhelmed.

Reminders of the depth of the colors settled upon the walls.

And actions combining with feelings in such messy ways.

What a thing it is to have sheets with features that sometimes pitch steeply instead of desirably.

Songwriting that isn’t always able to push away the debate that is seeking to be heard.

Notes creating mixed-tapes to be sung.

And music that has had some lovely choruses poured into it. 

What a thing it is to have stages with monologues that broadcast a lot of happiness.

Scripts that choose not only the writer but the main character as well.

Words that expand with each breadth and wrap around like a hug.

And as a sanctuary that shines even when the weather sends out alerts that it might storm.

For this is the way of a story fluctuating between the possibilities of unhappy and happy.

Not because losses know its name.   

Not because there is friendliness.

And not because everything done right leads to everything going right.

But that the whole package of hell, heaven and every single step in between carry on.

In making hope hard in the dark, easy in the light and only slightly noticeable at other times.

In turning the rain into what grows flowers, washes dreams away and also all right anyways.

In the smallness of being in the arms of the weather, the power of a smile and remaining despite the games.

For this is the meeting of thoughts and emotions within that very same artwork.

In taking words and raising or lowering their voices depending upon the moment.

In presence feeling wrong or right and the conflict of doing something next either way.

In the historicalness of red going so deep into love but also into anger.

Apart from the hope.

Past the empty and filled spaces.

Beyond ideas.

And further than any words ever spoken elsewhere.

Moments of truth mixed with confusion plus some really good art.

Chances to paint the hushes, the closeness of weakness, and the circulating weather. 

The bravado of dances and shadows that have made time with us.

And learning to love the person walking with not just the pressure of weeds but flowers as well.

For this is a garden.

This is artwork.

This is us living the entirety of a story within our homes.  

And for a particular word, all of that show and tell clearly belongs underneath the label of adaptability.     

Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell   

Fasten #409

Empty space in our moments is quietly traded away for what our imagination fills it in with.

Beliefs that welcome the talking points of insecurity.  

Unchecked dislike without consideration for the courage that danced in those fields too.

Presentation implying that we can’t outgrow what we’ve gotten used to because we should have never known that stuff to begin with. 

Messages raised by the gardener and the garden that share the identity of being both.

Confusion declaring that the writer should write better while the main character should be able to use what’s written better.

Equality of the pain carried on in being an imperfect artist and artwork.

Unity without reflection on walking a journey while being every step of the trek too. 

Having been slowly created by the inventiveness that didn’t arrive loudly.

That creeped through one moment, one thought, and one feeling at a time.  

That arrived from the diluting of support.

And we have to meet that version that has filled in those absences with its blindness.

The one that has been debating us and our possibilities.

The one that is familiarity with colors on repeat. 

As well as being the solution for things that have been stirred up around us and in us.

The response while on the side with little laughter.    

The presence of footsteps and the feelings from each movement.

While hope makes its way through days filled with the doubt in being these individuals.

Never mentioning that no matter how it works out, we are going to handle it.

Never embracing the uncertainty of the weather but instead wishes for it to go.

Never changing how we think  to hold ourselves right here and now.

And never saying that the old won’t become obsolete until the new secures its dialogue.

But isn’t that the way in trying to trust walks sharing space with thoughts that never seem to run out of messed-up sentences?

In trying to remember that quieter doesn’t mean bravery and resilience aren’t present in our stories. 

In trying to sort through our things to be everything that we need in what doesn’t seem to have much to work with. 

From where we are, we can see a space that we are unsure of what to say or do in.

And just maybe we could live a little more if a particular word left its color in that vulnerable spot.

The kind of word that as long as we fasten it, there won’t be much room for imagination to carelessly fill in spaces and upend our stories.

Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell

An Isle #408

Under a particular word, the better parts of us show up in a scene but if we can’t negotiate that, the low ceiling ends up being a catastrophe.

Ends up a boundary made from shame, frustration and surprise.

A longing for the kind of strength that seems to coast as an ally anywhere that we are not.

An enemy or the one that we feel that we are in the things that bind us.

And truth that comes to life not from happiness hating on us but the placement of moments guided by survival.

Because in being on this side of that word, where we are at is far more of a hellscape.

Under that same word, the better parts of us climb but if we can’t keep that footing, the trudging ends up being standard care. 

Being movement that works for the perceived map but not necessarily for periods of continuous rain.

Stops that the audience ignores the importance of even the smallest of achievements.

Knowledge that weaves it way as nourishment but still receives messages from the weeds.

And truth that comes to life not from happiness hiding but distractions circling back around to affect the ecosystem of possibilities.

Because in being on this side of that word, all right is still tip-toeing around tweaking the shade.

Under that same word, the better parts of us are like magic but if we can’t hold that clarity, we can at least remember that there is more to the story.

That standing isn’t the same destabilizing action of the past.

Sitting is part of showing up in imperfect scenes.

Forgiveness is for us because love loves us anywhere and everywhere. 

And truth that comes to life not because happiness makes it so but because its taken a lot to quiet the storms for the better.

Because in being on this side of that word, we can now see that it was never useless but that it looks more like us than what we had heard it should be.

An isle is a label with spaces for each of those hand-painted sections.  

Spots for what our tears are made from, what we only occasionally deserve and something that is the key to bringing relief.

With open arms, that particular word has never required us to find ourselves before taking action in any of those places.

It doesn’t ask fear to avoid the areas nor negotiate happiness as a promise for its work.

And it doesn’t flounder in our hating on ourselves or getting turned around on long journeys.

But instead it breathes in the dark and rests in the light even when we don’t feel it there.

It never misses us because it’s colored on each of the pages. 

And it never gets tired even when we spend extra time hiking in exhaustion along the way.

Because in being on either side of whatever word has been thought of, it’s still the one friend that an isle keeps for building whether its at the top of our list or not.

Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell

Fairness #407

Under the label of survival, there are times when retreating makes sense for us.

When existing steps in because there is an awareness of feeling small.

In hope sounding different and fear having us trained in the reasons why it does.

And in lonely making us cry while strength has a framework that we can’t fit into.

Under the label of all right, hesitation shows up in fewer moments. 

Artwork isn’t always lit up because of the weather.

Hope can crawl out from under the rubble.

And blaming ourselves for not always stepping strongly doesn’t escalate to shouting.

Under the label of love, there are fewer biased opinions as we walk.

A softening of the identities found in the layers of lived evidence.

A breathing of the hope that stands by our picking ourselves every day.

And an understanding that strength isn’t experienced the same way in the mind as it is in the heart.

These are three different guides for climbing and falling in the conversations of our homes.

Of how we say hello to the weeds that grow anyways. 

Of our shifting thoughts along the journey of rooting and being open.

Of how we color hope and strength with our tears as well as our swagger.

While patience struggles with exhaustion from the long suffering. 

In being somewhere between doubt that doesn’t dream and hope’s assurances.

And in noticing that not every location has flowers on its approved list of travel companions. 

Because when pain talks back, wishes feel exactly the same as the weight of responsibility does.

When touring the mid-section, hope’s decline is felt even though it never really says good-bye. 

And when yes shines, the focus of freely writing is on keeping that particular flame alive. 

But survival doesn’t need to silence happiness if it’s allowed to be grumpy in the same

room that a belly full of laughter can at the very least smile in.

What the scenery has to offer doesn’t have to be a failure if that landscape isn’t made to feel bad that some ideas just don’t fit within its framework.

And the map can be clearer if hope and strength are understood in the actual place that they currently happen to be in.   

Because it’s not that one of those labels is really better than the others. 

But it is the pushing of love away from imperfect sections that confuses us.

It is the temptation of searching for a better us to come home to that muddies our works of art.

And it is the cautionary tale of our realness that makes cutting the truth off feel beneficial.

So, in all fairness, we don’t have to hold tightly to hope for happiness; we just need to let go of labels that tell us that we aren’t strong enough to grow any flowers when in the concrete of survival.

Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell