In the Company of Flowers #430

Some words are seen far more often than what they've actually done.

Playing with bits of life.

Applying assumptions along the way.

Louder than they should be.

Better at gathering rain.

Even at times confusing love as the villain.

Some words are seen far more often than they are actually favored.

Written in the margins.

Pointing at upright.

Shouted from the crowd.

Hosted from experience.

Everything and nothing at the same time.

Some words are seen far more often than they actually show up. 

Paying no attention to the waiting weather.

Taking care of just enough to be believed.

Trying to hold onto beauty.

Assembling pieces of theater.

Freezing time.

Some words are seen simply because they move around our gardens.

Like when the rain is pouring from our eyes.

Where we are isn't enough.

And the evidence of our own unique blue is confusing for us.

Or when hope appears in a way that we didn't grasp that we needed.

Toiling achieves something.

And when conversations bring peace.

Some words are seen because they connect us to what's ours.

Where weakness and strength argue for different parts.

The desire to be seen strays away from having to show up.

And the personal hero without cheers from the crowd has to keep going.

But the more places that we can adapt to, the less some words can define who we are.

The more we ride around feeling rather than being, the less some words of doubt have to give.

And the more we are open to falling, the less history has the freedom to continue with some words.

Gardens aren't just meant to be in the company of flowers, and gardeners shouldn't live otherwise just because some words don't favor that.

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

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

Made to Bloom #427

Red is a color developed in the artwork.

Deposits of moments and hopes accumulating in the home.

Dressed to express how pain and love feel.

Pushed as both an ally and an enemy.

And enduring the lineup as best as it can for sure.

Beauty is an open door for all in the artwork.

Touching the agreed upon and the inked.

Active in the mechanisms and the frictions.

Acknowledged in the relief and in the longing.

And giving freely to dreams whenever it can for sure.

Happy is a weather event stemming from the artwork.

A label with an immense range.

Costs nothing as well as a whole lot.

Is the easiest thing but also the hardest too.

And redirects smiles with lies as often as it can for sure.

Everything grows in the artwork.

Speaks politely and rudely in those spaces.

Wishes for certainty in the downpours.

Hates traversing the wilderness of uncomfortable.

And promotes boundaries while farming.

Because the artist constructs its artwork from what has mattered.

It's rounded-up moments woven as confessions onto pages.

Clad in colors that are sometimes just smoke and mirrors.

Bent from the shadows and roots chasing perfect handstands.

And of course, the insider questions about the intentions of the artistic taste.  

Because what that artwork is selling is what the artist has brought to form.

Not as a story of defeat but realness with a filter of fear held over it. 

A familiar lens certain about its walk of suppression.  

Forgetting that change isn't in silencing but in modifying the game so that whatever the artist has to portray, it's supported by the rules for sure.

Everything grows in the artwork because everything is made to bloom and when smiles with lies are running the show, bravery's magic is that it's too engaged to be blue about not headlining the episode.

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

Unattended #426

We talk about heroic as if we know its game.

Like, it's some list of victories.

With lines celebrating just the parts that display strength.

Not the cost of battles that existed before and come after.

Nor the moments where it has very quietly fit in. 

We voice beauty as if we know what it names.

Like, there's some list that drops down to be read off of.

As a consensus about gardens always displaying full bloom.

Not the expense of that, felt deeply in the heart as well as the mind.

Nor the possibilities of experiencing it in custom ways.

We discuss colors as if we know their fame.

Like, it's some list to advise artists.

With precise mixing that must be met.

Not the consequence of expecting the same composition everywhere.

Nor the success that the sky has in never just being blue.

We address stories as if we know how they came.

Like, there's some list that reaches into every home.

As neatly categorized frames to be surrounded with.

Not the price of rejecting the full experience.

Nor the pieces that play briefly and whose receipts take time.

We talk about heroic as if we know its game.

Like, it's some list that eludes our pages.

With lines about how it dances on the journeys of others. 

Not the cost of denying the manner in which it is planted for us.

Nor the moments where it didn't go while resonating with us that it did.

We voice beauty as if we know what it names.

Like, there's some list that even our mirrors are aware of.

As proof that other gardens are always together.

Not the expense of ignoring our evolving, individual portrayals.

Nor the possibilities of exuding it in other note worthy styles.

We discuss colors as if we know their fame.

Like, it's some list that came to be because some said so.

With precise mixing that's hard to understand. 

Not the consequence of keeping love from stirring the pot for something other than red.

Nor the success overlooked when debris exchanges the lighting in happy places.

We address stories as if we know how they came.

Like, there's some list for sure.

As neatly categorized frames to be pointed at.

Not the price of only showing up for what's liked.

Nor the pieces paying out pain simply because there is some list for sure.

So, here we go, moving without maps and peering through to checklists.

Up close ones that are weak when anger, fear and hurt get personal.

Our signs and symptoms harvesting hope to put the branding down.

Because when left unattended, heroic doesn't need a list to be there. 

Beauty doesn't need a list to flourish.

Colors don't need a list to elaborate.

And stories don't need a list to love.

But when left unattended, a list does a good job in making it seem as if there's no other way of being. 

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

Accessories #425

Heroic is the kind of art where pressure turns into likeable.

Is so much more adventurous than fear.

Never feels like it doesn't belong.

And sounds so great when read out loud.

Weak, however, is the type of art that is deeper than what it seems. 

Packed with seconds, thirds and more that are everywhere.

Never feels like the scuff marks are anything but exhausting. 

And struggles with the loneliness in not feeling at home.

Or so that's how both of those acts are echoed far and wide.

Quotes fueled by emotional tributes.

Smiles that don't match but are grins just the same.

Hikes in the rain and faulty flashlights limiting the views.

And neither asking for permission to chat about life as they do.

Two names tearing up about what they've been through.

Relating to war and hearts that beat fast.

The urgency trending in the being and the not being.

And the tiredness that comes along the way.

Or so that's how both of those shows express themselves.

Different feelings within similar lines.

Tangible and intimate words that sometimes lean towards each other.

Thoughts overthinking visits to a one-stop shop. 

And plots holding forever at the end of each aisle.

Labels sitting around detached from curiosity.

Sounds tracing the same lines again and again.

Composure leaving questions for some later day.

And black and white ideas that are just so noisy.

Or so that's how both of those limbs play their parts.

Not in separate artworks but on each side of the very same one.

Two meanings with twists and turns in gardens with all that there is.

For the days when it makes no sense that upright includes being underneath.

And where never too much is still startled by the blue that remains at its feet.

Because favorable and ruffled things are always active in our homes. 

As a part of who we think we are and who we think we are not.

As the real connections sunk somewhat in the mud, keeping an eye towards sunny skies.

As the names that don't own the place despite our voices reading their lines.

And as the exchangeable and yet moody accessories impacting our art every single step of the way.

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