Happiness is sliding into laughter with effortless generosity.
An expansion of the breath without instructions from narratives.
A match with the kind of success that the heart knows intimately.
Until temporary appearances move it into something to long for.
Dreams are a leap forward to ideal moments offered somewhere down the line.
An ecosystem where hearts and minds will be lovingly embraced.
Pictures of flowers hung on walls to light up darkened rooms.
Until the loss from fires makes them something to long for.
Love is a song that fully believes in how it fits into a home.
Strength to carry backpacks that can't be given away.
A commitment to saving alone under the title of all right.
Until the inconvenience of difficult connections turns it into something to long for.
When wanted things sit in preferences, it's perfect fuel for the stuff supportive language is made of.
But when they shift positions, suddenly those aspects are enrolled under suffering and failings.
The fallout of the very same words hollering in the other kind of weather just as they have frolicked in the one, we enjoy them in.
As if it isn't just the dragons wreaking havoc but the sun hating upon us as well.
As if a certain amount of preserved right moments would finally make imperfect less sticky.
But in some ways, those patches of desired things make us more dependent on a value that we think they solely hold.
On their implied safety that doesn't even bother to mention the ingredients needed for the days that are the opposite of lovely.
And their script that fails to point out that messy neighbors emerging from behind curtains doesn't cause happiness, dreams or love to evacuate.
In artistry, words are inconvenient because what we notice limits how they are used.
And that impact is felt when dressed-down details take while leaving behind the remains of us in silence.
For it is the matching things standing in different positions that fill up our homes with contrasting information about what artists are actually capable of.
We are all about the good and the colorful but when the days that we have show up with none of that, lean in because there is nothing that says only one kind of weather produces freedom.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
The weather doesn't look after storylines with the good stuff.
It doesn't keep plans safe from being turned upside down.
And it doesn't only perform on a stage after asking for permission.
But it does embody the property of experiences.
It does repeat the familiar based upon rumors and opinions.
And it does inhale the price of every single one of those moments.
Events that keep on giving long after they have passed.
Circumstances that have been trained to take before thoughts can even respond.
And episodes that punish as if they are predicting the artwork before it has been created.
As if their job is to lay us down with their vibrations.
To be the words that fade-out possibilities.
To hold the lines that unhappy is the results of a lack of success along the way.
The weather, after all, is always going to detail how weather-beaten moves.
How portraits are reproduced on pages, concealing the view of being worthy of care.
And how the shadows mask happiness so deeply that we are no longer comfortable with how it feels to the touch.
But what if we only believe that we are so close to the cost of our experiences that we can't shine anyways?
What if we only stand by success because its properties are easier to list than connecting love to catalogs of stuff that hold way more than we want?
What if we only let go because of the hope that yesterday's trail cameras will leave us alone in the tomorrows?
All gardens face losses but not all gardeners are prepared to cope with being lost in the weather of their very own mirrors.
To make a way back around for the versions that can no longer hold certain success but are worthy of care anyways.
To allow for the weather to just be the weather because building supports takes practice not perfection.
Gardeners have their reasons for the weather that pours out and the gardens translating that are the same gardens staying in touch with what it also means to be the gardener.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Throughout our journeys, long conversations are had with the reflections in the mirrors.
Not about the songs that instantly take us back to the yesterdays.
Not about the dreams that we hope to get to.
Not about the losses that can easily be looked up.
Not about the happiness that keeps grabbing our attention.
Not about the thoughts that describe the essence of us without fondness.
Not about the miles of feelings that dig into our hearts.
Not even about what seems to be permanently staring back at us.
But about all of those distractions as they are folded into and out of us, building the places that words drop us off at.
The ones overplaying their part, making moments more important than we have ever been.
Their acts of injustice hosting recurring themes in environments that are still seeking safety.
And their woundedness flickering the lights unapologetically, leaving tomorrow open to darkness.
But then that kind of dialogue is always busy being loud and clear in taking us out of context to justify pressing moments into us every which way it can.
None of which tells us that without emotions, happiness can't actually exist and without thoughts, the understanding that is needed on our pages is devoured.
Nor does it mention that trying to delete any of those parts is simply another form of distraction for stories already distracted to begin with.
There is a reason why weeds grow where our habit hasn't been to know ourselves but if we can wish to have been loved better in those places, then buried within that information is the reality of knowing that we can be.
So, as we fight the exchange of ideas from the mirror, words that have yet to see the light of day are not empty seeds but truth waiting for the nourishment to bloom.
The price of care being absent from the dialogue of our artwork is that it prevents our stepping beyond the echoes of moments being more important than we are.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Certainty is absorbed into the talk of change while hesitation is occupied by the language of weaknesses that prevent movement.
With that translation showing up in how we talk about ourselves and our ideas about navigating big emotions.
Not just the grief but the dances of all, distracting from spaces in need of something that isn't sideways.
Advice to have a nice relationship with certainty as if we are meant to keep tossing aside suffering to meet up at the same finish line.
But safety and movement feel painfully quiet when history hasn't been applying those pieces in the same way.
Or even as determination has been honored in moments, but comparison still only picks songs about what's missing.
Leaving us wondering why we stumble within view of others that seemingly have been raised by a different kind of certainty.
Making it easier to tear ourselves down more than it has ever been to build our gardens up, long after those pages have been turned.
And then there's hesitation and how its content is like an endless puddle at the entrance to our own home.
Pushing us even harder into the confusing feedback of being both the writer and the main character who are collaborating in that doorway.
The place where we lose ourselves in the contradiction of thinking we should be strong while the heart drifts in the answer of feeling so very weak.
And the view of impossible with its never-ending loop of limiting colors.
And yet hesitation has a very important role in our stopping to ask questions that lead to awareness in deeper suffering.
As the reminder that every good story doesn't always know what it's doing and has to wait and see if it's going to end up hurting or not.
In moving previous harrowing experiences over just enough to allow slivers of light to disarm the highlight reel.
Grasping tightly to that care when out of habit, the mind awakens with hesitation and the heart rages with fear.
As well as gently walking with its guidance in the found truth that the proof of reliability is being slowly redefined within our individual stories.
For words that are meant to be bridges don't always land us in the same places on the journeys of hand-painted works of art.
So, let's take it all back in everything we gave away because the outcome is what we draw close whether that's a dragon painstakingly clearing the path or one that continues the distortion until hesitation finally gets to be all that it is in the doorway.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
They say that in order for moments to be forgotten, we must stop thinking about them.
To cease feeling the fragments of the battles that continue to slip into our breath.
And so, we take a chance on this moment or the next or the next as being the place where happy finally awakens to stay.
Reveling in the idea of shutting out the noise with the ordinary and hope while on grounds that refuse to be silent about memories.
Voices that tell us to quit even though we don't remember exactly how they came to be qualified to decide that.
And yet they are firmly seated in "we were not made for happy".
Their directive always given whether or not there is something to grieve.
Their rumors of our being out of place, spreading like fire while compassion requires permission to even be considered.
Their patterns of disqualifying begun long before the pieces of moments got as big as they are now.
Trimming us down as if our natural features are not found in any of the concepts of gardens that please.
Making homesick as close as we can get in dreaming of the power of happiness.
Imagine then, moving forward only to discover that past relationships have gotten loose and are following.
Or looking for something that has already been quietly discounted from being found.
Or trying to believe in love while streaming the undeserving ballads that keep it away.
Or the disillusion of wishing for what could be and wondering why things have to be a certain way for it to show up.
Because what subtly emerged over the course of a lifetime of moments was the deeply rooted idea that we were not worth caring for.
But a lifetime of heavy and lonely isn't deserved nor is it meant to be the permanent well of a garden or the continued voice of pages.
Words are only words with open doors that harbor the flow of our things as well as those that belong to others.
And the truth of what breathes changes when understanding that thoughts and feelings overstay their welcome because we think there is nothing else hidden in their colors.
Art is messy, along with gardens and writings, but those natural features don't automatically separate us from love or happiness unless their touches decrease our awareness of being worthy of care too.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Somewhere along experiences, validation of a story begins to set in.
With sustainable evidence binding thoughts and feelings.
Random logic clear in the information shared from puzzle pieces.
Reliable from a front seat view of the floorplan of a home.
Effective in carrying on without consent being given.
Sound from beginning to end in its walk with endless noise.
Convincing in nothing ever changes because it can't.
Intentional in defining the community unfavorably.
Privileged in its lingering touches to everything on its path.
Because there are words that shelter thoughts and feelings, making it easier to link struggles through a single tune.
To acknowledge that the ache of scars is the proof of whatever we think that it is.
And, of course, the job of valid is to confirm that, with the implication that fine is impressed by that environment.
But as time passes, what won't leave our side continues to shout over the quietness of all right.
As if it knows who we are and what we can have despite any step towards different.
Denying the resilience it has taken to exist halfway between the cruelty of nothing ever changes because it can't and the confusion of implied relief.
Art, after all, is never just created from what we live but in how we question and accept the best as well as the worst of our images.
And whether those bits and pieces are ever eventually reconciled into power, not because those moments changed, but the use of their evidence did.
So, valid is an accurate shelter but its title was never meant to be hung on the door as a full-on stop.
It's the pause in the familiar sentences going nowhere that we have yet to find support in.
A place not to ask too much of what doesn't look good but to realize that conclusions remain the same when we are homesick within our very own words.
Valid is as valid does until the music it releases includes the notes that allow us to love the versions of ourselves that have been lost in the paint.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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