What travels between our hearts and our heads is what we have met in ourselves with certainty.
In what leaks through the spaces within gardens that hold gain: whether in joy or in pain.
In their sharing common ground amongst the layers of pages.
In their giving generously to the narratives of our words and in pivoting the weather.
As the aspects of the companions that continue to remain.
As recalled views despite not being within sight of others.
And as the wins and the losses that haven’t always built confidence, but we’ve hoped for it anyways.
Because our artwork has met with the duality that certainty projects.
In how being sure has held us back as well as moved us forward.
In how right has been wrong in some moments and wrong has been right in others.
In how trusting us makes change possible even when we are certain we are scared.
In how thinking the magic is somewhere else fosters the heavy weight of not knowing we are enough every day.
And in how belief is influenced by the certainty that has already walked onto the stage through past reflections.
Because it’s how familiarity brings reliability into stories where unfamiliar seems threatening.
But that doesn’t prevent certainty’s conflict of interest from sabotaging confidence.
Doesn’t deconstruct the tangles and rewrite them into the instructions that won’t empty us before tomorrow has even arrived.
Doesn’t allow us to mourn the missteps instead of losing ourselves because of them.
So, if certainty has us repeating stuff, are we even curious about the pages anymore?
Are we seeing what’s playing or is it just fading into the background?
And is hope being dragged along with certainty or is hope testifying that the road gets better when we are certain about liking ourselves anyways?
Because certainty isn’t asking us to sink into the deep end of sorrow, nor is it asking us not to feel the doubt.
Isn’t promising to fix anything nor that if held close, that a bunch of other stuff won’t need mending.
Isn’t turning sad songs into direction nor growing pains into comfortable movements.
Isn’t making us resilient nor is it showing us that we aren’t strong.
But it does dance around with whatever moves we make, picking up wherever it lands.
Sometimes in small ways, others for the melancholy but also the sunny days with ease.
For confidence as well as the devotion despite the little information that’s being seen.
Just to be all that it can be in lifting happy or in closing our eyes over yonder in the grief.
As a word in the journal of our lives that we forget to actually read.
As a nutrient in the garden with context made from unfiltered emotions that have been known to deceive.
And as the color blue to wrap some of those things up in.
For certainty’s relationship within our stories gives freely to what comes home but as we are looking the other way, a particular word outlasts that uncertainty.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Two different feelings far apart but still close enough in a story.
One happy and the other sad.
Each with just enough time for their messages to be interpreted.
Dropped onto lines as talking points translated from situations.
Just becoming what’s not questioned in the artwork.
Because there’s no consideration for individual details.
No understanding of distractions.
No thought of how personal renditions influence.
Nor how stories aren’t straight journeys.
Just a familiar consistency in the ideas that have been added to us.
In the amplified voice that belonging and loneliness never share smiles.
That thriving is more than what surviving can do.
That flowers are said out loud while weeds on the land around them are silenced.
That happy is somewhere ahead and sad will end once that line is crossed.
That walking past leaves it behind.
But even if those beliefs fit elsewhere, it doesn’t mean that they should be ours.
That those suggested words will know us or we them even with hope.
That unfamiliar colors won’t pull us back into yesterday’s games.
That we will run out of tears there.
That homes won’t be bruised once again.
But then neither do our own words with their two different feelings also close by.
In how yellow has taken more than its given even though being found seems happy.
In it not being easy to tend to weeds when flowers also need care.
In grief turning up even when we aren’t thinking about it.
In looking most often right even though there’s a left too.
If we are honest then, we aren’t just caught up in the shadows of our own words but also in trying to incorporate the script of others.
To breath within the pending while ignoring it in both the belonging and the loneliness.
To paint better blues even though we are still waiting for the right sky days to perfect our art.
To balance without being good at trusting in our sad like we show in the happy.
To travel documenting where we go without exploring everything left behind in our homes.
As if worth comes from having the right things between those two different feelings instead of us being the right people capable of cohesion in what’s between those two different feelings.
Remember though, a particular word doesn’t outsource its knowledge of us and exists as it does in our stories simply because we give it life with our debris as well as our flowers.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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