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
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