The voices worrying about what needs to be handled.
And for the not all right that comes from unstoppable forces coming to play.
Leaving us to underestimate our ability to communicate differently.
To show up for the anguish in the mirror.
To walk landscapes where blooms are still dormant seeds in the ground.
With that kind of blue giving and taking despite hope.
Isolating instead of capturing more of the view.
And normalizing rhetoric that was never meant to stay.
What we’ve experienced isn’t for keeps.
How silhouettes have been held isn’t for keeps.
Where feelings of helplessness have remained isn’t for keeps.
As whispers working to introduce something different.
Rough drafts not waiting to get it right to touch the care.
Blue spinning the block to rest in softer hands.
And sorrow recognizing songs but not at the expense of love.
For things to quietly get some power from good enough.
Walls struggling with arrangements to take on more moments of help.
Phases of shaking to be seen as freestyling dance moves.
And tears rolling down to take their time crossing the borders of labels.
Allowing the benefit of being in between the mixed messaging.
To view more than the whatnots normally stared at in the mirror.
And to continue on since seeds don’t always end up playing the part of flowers.
We can’t count the times we were able to just forget life but we do remember why we have used a lot of blues on our canvases.
We can’t count the hours we’ve looked up at a perfectly blue sky but we do remember how many moments we have tried to figure a way out while looking up.
We can’t count the wanted things that we took by the hand but we do remember all the things that follow along making us blue.
And we can’t count the times that we have accepted us as we are, but we do remember all the ones where blue has called red by its storyline name.
But while to keep or not to keep is a messy game, blue quietly connects with us as a reminder that it’s made up of varying hues and so are we.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Because no matter where every storyline has been or goes, there’s comfortableness within the collection of that foliage.
There’s acceptance within the terms.
There’s shelter within the tones.
There’s familiarity within the steps.
But then the stories are thin without the moments that make knowing right where the perfect blue belongs personal.
Without the spotty employment history of love and where anger finishes strong.
Without the weather that creates hope and runs through the count of sunny days.
Without the stability written in by silence and the fear that alters it into instability.
Without the sound of a whispered song and the echoes of it sung loudly on some other day.
Without the stained paintbrushes that still portray life without touching a canvas.
Without the sorrow that releases tears more frequently than laughter does.
And without the freestyling of weeds that cast shadows and pauses.
Because fitting into a choir doesn’t mean personal pitches don’t have to be practiced.
Looking like other stories doesn’t stop unseen details from rolling around homes.
The sanctuary of a group doesn’t prevent the rain from coming in sideways anyways.
And together doesn’t untangle thoughts of loneliness.
So notice how the community gets agreement from the gardener but the garden gets discord.
Watch how the hardest thing isn’t the details but that the writer is still sitting in the gossip missing the love part.
Observe how we want blue skies but not the slowdown that every artist and artwork needs.
And see how there are songs to carry feels but those feels are why the music sounds right.
Because with and without fitting in and details, connection can and does create conflict and conflict can and does create connection.
And as we pull up yet another duality, remember; a particular word doesn’t pause just because we know our face in why our perfect blues belong where they do.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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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