What Calls #429

Once upon a time, there was something.

Spinning around in a moment.

Settling into a home.

Brushing colors into spaces.

Pulling on words.

Speaking from the distress.

Neither chosen nor ready for.

A storyteller within a story, nonetheless.

Time said good-bye but that something stayed anyways.

Became a memory.

A path in the home.

A call pointing to the wound.

A different name but with the same approach.

Projecting yesterday's survival like a beacon.

Still unwanted and unsafe.

A storyteller within a story, nonetheless.

Now that something is a fixed feature in the home.

Original material pushing with a heavy fist.

An experience crossing lines.

Sometimes rushing and sometimes steady.

Eyeing crumbs of happiness in the corner.

A dramatic monologue practiced over time. 

Keeping pace just the same. 

A storyteller within a story, nonetheless.

A solitary something met in another place.

A recall rising above other things. 

A case that is loud but not necessarily clear.

More contact with shame than love or so it would appear.

Supports painted smiles as a niche in the darkness.

A fearless introduction amongst fresh moments.

And haunts different pages for free.

A storyteller within a story, nonetheless.

In the upright, something is still something.

In the face down, it's still something.

In every weather, still something.

With colors, something.

With a parade, it remains.

And no matter the day, well it's still there.

But that storyteller within a story isn't speaking as if we are the punchline.

It's stuck in a space that we keep trying to make up for.

As if we could lose that weight by getting somewhere else.

But tomorrow won't say anything new as long as something continues to bloom.

At least not until epic lines about being someone in the somethings are to be included.  

For what calls the time doesn't pull the strings on the value of a home, and a wound always feels different than a scar. 

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

Weeding #428

One word does not decide who we are, but that word can pre-write who we become.

One moment does not decide who we are, but that moment can be the catalyst in who we become.

One thought does not decide who we are, but that thought can fill in the gap of who we become.

One emotion does not decide who we are, but that emotion can spark who we become.

Each crossing to inform the rules of being both the gardener and the garden.

Even at times, mislabeling the flowers and the weeds.

While chasing the narration of standing and sitting.

And always circling happy and unhappy as present or absent.

Filling in colors from wounds that echo while forgetting about laughter's bright hues.

Seeing the tiredness that can't be climbed even though it took strength to get right there.

Marking the imperfect days despite the delightful ones.

And breathing in the rage on red's list regardless of love's face being there too.

One word can wreck us and lift the weight that wasn't asked for.

One moment can speak our truth and lie along the way.

One thought can have us begging and make breathing easier

One emotion can make us capable and build impossible as a continuous reminder. 

Each carrying the pieces from habits and the space to dance.

Fixed identities and friendships that open doors.

A familiar pattern and the thrill of taking chances.

And careless permissions as well as the promise to be kind to ourselves.

Through colors placed apart but close enough to blend for support.

The kind of rubble that doesn't believe it can't help grow flowers.

The legacy of eye-opening storms and rain with no plans but relief.

And the tug of war from shame as well as hearts fighting in low places.

When one comes to us, the side that wins is the one we reinforce.

The fastest answer to who we think we are.

The compliance that we disappear into; one by one. 

Not because that side has better facts but because it's been mainstreamed into our homes.

Integrated right next to the show of other things that hesitation has somehow taken control of.

Even though blue holds us on sunny days and carries us in the hum of pain's uprising.

Because as it turns out, two things can be true like being both happy and sad at the same time.

So, in a whole lot of ones that we didn't ask for, weeding isn't about weeds but the conditioning that says we can't take anything else from a word, a moment, a thought or an emotion.

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