no longer the strong one

I am done with the sharp edges — the rigid surfaces. You will not find me seeking the upmost knowledge, or reaching the loftiest goal. I will not be shouting from the mountaintops about anything that I know.

Because I learn more from the sunflower than I do from the therapist. I know that the most spiritual people I’ve met are on the sidelines of society making art, cuddling sick cats, tending to gardens, and caring for the sensitives. You can see the light in their eyes as you converse with them. I learn more from their irises than I do in any life coaching program. Their sparkles teach me how to be soft.

Their elegant tones teach me how to smooth over my rough edges and I am saved every day.

I do not want to stand tall and hold the heavy. I have been doing it for too long. Building towers to keep the sick secrets safe while everyone looks at me and wonders why I’m as still and silent as stone. I am often the one who keeps me alone.

And when I open up the doors and let the horrors flow from my delicate bones, I see the flooding carve out a brand new home. Where the wildflowers grow and I am reminded that there is no one way.

That those things I held while posing strong were an illusion. If only they had been clouds floating by releasing the rain. I carried the pain because I was told to, when in reality all the darkness ever wanted to do was to show me I was alive.

And I could choose to be vulnerable about hell, and tell you all of the twisted things, speak of the demons once strangling my body or the times I screamed alone on a wooden floor, begging to die, trapped in an aching vessel. It would feel good for a minute or two to speak about it, to soften my sharp edges.

But I no longer am the strong one. My arms drift slowly in the wind and my words slip easily onto paper. I sing songs on windy roads, and skip rocks on the rivers. I record 30 minute voice memos to the doves in my life who don’t stifle my throat and I breathe in their stories. I curl up between blankets, and move between realms. I hop on couches because the floor is lava, and listen sincerely to the 7 year old in my life who writes melodies to bring in the snow.

I look up to the stars and know they will spin and move and glow, and I realize that I was once one of them.

The soft and the subtle. Sinking into the slow. Slipping into the lightness.

No longer the strong one, seeking support from above.

I’m full of fluff, and feathers, and laughter.

And love.