If the Flower Fits #423

Heroic is a particular word.

The kind that doesn’t have to ask to be noticed.

The perfect fit for a safety label.

For the strength to vibrate deeply.

To roll along the lines coloring happiness along the way.

And it does until it doesn’t.

Not because it wavers but because we do.

Not because it’s heavy but because our own weight remains.

Not because it’s easy but because it’s easy to hold it over us.  

Heroic is a particular word.

The kind that feels good.

A truth that can be seen.

A standing out and also a fitting in.

A validation that works. 

And it does until it doesn’t.

Not because its evidence fades, but because stories curve away.

Not because it isn’t right for us but because there’s still unfinished business within us.

Not because the moments aren’t ours but because there are uncharted ones ahead.

Heroic is a particular word.

The kind that’s easier to understand elsewhere.

A version that’s feels misleading within our own dialogues.

The type that’s easily ignored when there are budget cuts.

Something unknowingly leaned upon in survival.

And it is until it isn’t.

Not because it changed but because allowing us to be is changing.

Not because it’s perfected but because we don’t need the details to be just right.

Not because it’s wearing our best but because consistency shows our strength.

Heroic is a particular word.

The kind that isn’t certified as valuable.

A smaller image that’s overlooked.

As a quiet and almost silent campaign.

As a contributor whose meaning feels dull.

And it is until it isn’t.

Not because the light was turned up but because our views are adjusting to the lighting.

Not because it’s no longer whispering but because our shows are worth leaning in to hear.

Not because it’s now holds confidence but because we can embrace shaky input.

Heroic is a particular word whose recordable events have been normalized by certain details.

But if we define our gardens with the edges from other gardeners, the tour dates of our brave will be in the dark.

If the flower fits over there, then it fits over here too because even when we are stuck with flickering lights and weak points, resilience continues to bloom in our homes.

Heroic is a particular word, but in stories crowded with moments, it isn’t the only one.  

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

Tears Live Here #422

Moments appearing that make sense and others that never will.

The sound of knocking from what desires to speak to us.

Certainty clasped tightly to the edges expressing limitations. 

Turns out to be a heroic story nonetheless.

Spaces with silence, loudness and composure.

Unsure ground in the dark and the light.

Certainty standing within the hand-outs of familiarity.

Turns out to be a heroic story even so.

Places with gusts from the past, the present, and the hope for tomorrow.

Muddiness impacting a lot of the steps.

Certainty open or closed depending upon the day or the moment.

Turns out to be a heroic story anyways.

The details haven’t been forgotten.

The thoughts haven’t been forgotten.

The feelings haven’t been forgotten.

Turns out to be a heroic story all the same.

Mistakes have anchored along the way.

Storms have entered and left piles of debris.

Words have been spoken, heard, and believed.

Turns out to be a heroic story regardless.

Right and wrong moves that have been made.

Half songs that have been sung half-heartedly.

Smiles that have come from the happy side too.

Turns out to be a heroic story anyhow.

It’s easy to believe that we don’t have anything in common with courage.

To still be together with pieces blending seamlessly into the same locations.

And to be disheartened by the stuff that’s been going around forever.

For what we have done with one, we have continued with the rest.

But strength is attached to us, not the details.

Our perseverance sets the tone, not how the days look.

And brave focuses on what we have and sometimes that’s simply a familiar blue.

Tears live here because the connection between laughter and pain is heroic, but we can’t feel that if we are writing plans within the imaginary edges of happy and unhappy.

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

This Little Flower #421

The side we’ve come to know is the one whose instructions we have been letting.

Giving the framework for the words that we affirm it with.

The art that connects the rain.

The shaking that we lean on.

And the smallness that grips lonely.

Not from some echoing moment still burning inside.

Nor from the influence of a funny kind of color.

Or from a plot twist.

But from an entire world walking behind the label that has felt enough.

For the journey that rose up to meet us.

For the mistakes that remain public.

For all the right, that still didn’t work in the garden.

For the meaning built to fill in missing meanings.

Because taking care of us has been what we have been letting.

But then, that stuff is indeed ours.

In the form of the storms that have come, some without reason.

As the weeds that have choked out the flowers.

As what has been that cannot be undone.

And the love me nots that slowly climbed on board.

But just because things remain, it doesn’t mean that they have to stay as what we have been letting.

That we can’t remember that we are here despite the weight over there.

That safety can’t be sung as loud as fumbled melodies.

And that we are not homes to be moved under the label of words but homes where words can and are moved around in.

Because on the other side of what we have been letting is still us.

The us not prepared for thorns or weeds but figured out surviving anyways.

The us drifting through the fear and sorrow in the soil and showing up to hug the versions hurting there.

The us, not sure about anything, but holding space to grieve and be happy within the same step.

Because what we have been letting isn’t here to be escaped but for us to change how we go through it.

To sign our name to experiences and decide for ourselves what we are going to do with them.

To upgrade the flow of feelings, without being stuck in the heartache of having them.

To let love be the bridge for the artwork pooled in what doesn’t look good.  

And to agree to missing the sun but never us. 

Moments are the place holders of where we have been, but what comes after is our collaboration with the strong message of fear to figure out where love needs to land.  

This little flower nurtures a garden, not because it’s easy to grow, but because what we have been letting has already mulched the other side.

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

Come Wander #420

Words do not favor a particular direction but go where we lean.

Words do not work their way out of feelings but stay where we lean.

And words do not color experiences but cycle where we lean.

But those truths aren’t obvious when it comes to words that have been handed down. 

Words do not doubt but enforce where we lean.

Words do not ask to be carried but weigh heavily where we lean.

And words do not see tomorrow but continue where we lean.

But those truths aren’t obvious when it comes to words that have been hand-painted.

Words do not know right but fit right where we lean.

Words do not fail but sit where we lean.

And words do not heal but position where we lean.

But those truths aren’t obvious when words have been journaling with the no(s).

So much is said in sentences that never lead to anywhere different.

In thoughts that can’t resolve feelings. 

And in trusted stuff reflecting back distrust in slow motion.

Because spaces are shared and words move with speed whether true or not.

Allowing blank spots to be filled in before arrival.

For slogans of sorrow to be clutched tightly. 

And for love to only be for the right blue; the right action.

Because spaces are shared and those ideas are actually a part of our narratives.

A disapproval of missteps and debris.

A compass pointing us away from assistance.

And a deepening of that blue from details.

Because spaces are shared without fair representation, and we just let them.   

Shutting down understanding.

Passing unreal smiles without catching attention.

And not picking up on even the smallest of victories.

So here we are standing between yesterday’s dread and tomorrow’s hope that the stains will have faded by the time we get there.

Trying to escape what we have naturally been leaning into.

And to not be us in moments with info wars.

As if sacrificing versions of ourselves will keep us safe and our homes won’t shake.

Or that trading places will suddenly make weather events just some drama on a map to avoid.

And it’s no surprise that those pages whose words slope don’t even mention love.

But while we’ve been tangled up in the packages, what is ours is that we have kept going.

Continued living out loud with that blue that we’ve pointed at again and again along the way. 

And moved as needed to paint artwork already crowded with references.

So lets get this straight, we aren’t holding out for the days that we can read good news on our pages.

We are trying to figure out how to paint ourselves as loved wherever we may go.

So come wander the words and see that they have felt the way they have because we’ve been letting them.

And if that blue is going to show up here and there, we won’t protest who we are but rather the direction that we have been leaning.

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

Checklists #419

It takes a lot of creativity to not speak on the things that live inside our gardens.

To walk the path of the never, never land that knows how many times no is on the pages.

To have borders that circle us back around to the very same conversations.

To be in rhythm with the tune of luck running out and the black and white of let downs.

To feel its too late to keep that kind of blue from grooving on in what it represents.

And for fear to leave no room for anything other than the worst as self-defense.

It takes a lot of creativity to not speak on the things that still bring hesitation to our artwork.

To smile to maintain the act of yes on the outside while no is locked in on the inside.

To drift along with words that sound so easy and friendly on scenic routes located elsewhere.

To have the weather change without permission even though the days are clearly sunny.

To be homesick within our own homes.

And for the rawness of sorrow to be something to also feel bad about.

It takes a lot of creativity to speak on the things that we’ve believed we aren’t allowed to.

To bridge the details of moments into take aways that certain no(s) could never stop.

To give it all we have after having given our all to silence it.

To go off script so that we know we are worth showing up for.

To sing loudly to blow the clouds away.

And for happiness to have the freedom to share the path with our grief. 

It takes a lot of creativity to speak on the things that have lines tied to the yesterdays.

To applaud the no(s) that were us saying we deserve more.

To realize that observed survival is still laced with strength. 

To laugh at the bad rhymes.

To notice how much pain has never asked for anything other than to be embraced.

And for anger to turn its mound of dirt into mulch for flowers.

There’s so much we can see in our stories and every day no plays a role in what we view.

Whether its a soft landing or complications or the beauty that is mostly abstract.

Keeping watch on the details so that the no may be the right one for whatever the moment is.

Changeable with every step and yet able to be consistent with the direction that we lean.

Here for us on the ride that is our lives.

It takes a lot of creativity to use no to speak up or to shut us down with it.

And sometimes we can see that but more often what gets the front page is the no that we know.

Even the confusion between the duality gets penned into existence.

But although no ripples along our lines, its never talking about our strength.

Because the ones that feel good and those that leave scars require a whole lot of power to manage.

And we consistently survive those fickle and sometimes completely inaccurate checklists.

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

For the Journeys #418

Moments fade into the routine of familiarity.

Days pass with the idea that the close is only temporary.

Hope brings the language of a different landing beyond what’s been the same.

Circling the layers of our intimacy and the unscripted possibilities in the foreign.

One side with known weather and the other implying climate that can’t be verified.

The here, the there and some over there talking about leaving the old for the new.

Working to find footing while looking forward and glancing back. 

Slowly moving closer towards the uncomfortable from places that are uncomfortable.

While anxiety carves out space within the hope of this and that.

And pending whispers that it might just be hiding some thorns too. 

Because clips don’t always inform and we don’t always write down what we should anyways.

Like where strength stays dancing beyond our awareness.

Or where durability isn’t our best tune but it still plays specifically for us.

Or where resilience stands unnoticed whenever storms swirl and emotions flow. 

Or where steady looks unsteady in the weeds that grow wildly.

Or where not sure is a slow crawl and hardiness has the same moves.

And even where riding with fear will never be a waste of time for support.

Because a shoddy documentary on a garden and its gardener is still a story about chips and scratches that have been navigated.

Is familiar going together with hard and unfamiliar walking hand and hand with it too.    

Is memories that don’t care how we are and us caring about memories.

Is blue as the magic in the sky and feelings that never seem to run out of blue paint.

Is loneliness in crowded rooms and crowds that can’t solve loneliness either.

And is happiness that meets us and happiness that calls for us to meet it.  

Moments fade into the routine of familiarity, but while that intimacy might have some answers, what’s big needs what’s little too.

Days pass with the idea that the close is only temporary because change is looking out for the blind spots up and down our way.

Hope brings the language of a different landing beyond what’s been the same, but that never meant that love couldn’t be found in what we have stayed in.

Our homes hold the memories that they do, but for the journeys, those memories give the illusion that strength wasn’t also standing in the room.

Which is why a particular word supports us in the heaviness of the familiar, the unfamiliar and the confusion of the spaces in between.

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