On my soul, my eyes, on my body. 
So much weight. It feels hard to move. 
Stuck in the muck of life. 
Rooted in the ‘not enough part’. Not enough, so must 
consume and consume and consume,
Too much, too many, too, too, too.

Is it loving to write these words? To indulge these parts.
Or it is feeding the shame? I can’t tell anymore.

Moss in an early winter storm.
Not sure if I want to reach out or in.
Things have changed. In me and out there.
Is there a difference?

Seeing so much beauty in every thing, every one else.
Can I find beauty in myself, my heart?
Can I hold both the grotesque and the exquisite in the same breath?

My instinct is to silence these wailing parts.
Muffle them in food, technology and sleep.
And perhaps…
I might soothe them just by witnessing their existence.
Holding the sweet tension of numbness and aliveness.
Bearing witness to the complexity that is my self, my
experience and my beautiful human heart.

Yes, and…

I am here because…

I want to love me.

I want to love life… even the parts I don’t want.

I want to accept that I will never be done trying to love all the parts.

This is not a fight to the death… and it also is.

And I see I am not alone, and yet I also am.

The story of me includes lonliness and heartbreak and fierceness and armor and yet…

I see my strength without the story, too.

I am not just me, the story of me.

I am also you.

We are all connected. Together.

Alone, together. As one.

Ugh.  Cheesy.  And true.

I want to FEEL connection, and I know it’s already there.

I want to choose awareness, and is it really a choice?

I want to be profound.  Why?  Aren’t I enough?

I feel a tightness in my tummy.  My child screams he’s hungry.  I hear we’ve bombed another country.  My daugheter spills her cereal all over the floor.

What a strange existence.

Then later… I sit safe and cozy in my bed, trying to think what to say.

How do I share my heart?  Why?

I feel so solid and whole.  And yet I am just a part.  A sliver.  A thread in the grand tapestry.

My body aches, reminding me I’m a human being.

In a weaving with no pattern, yet I think I can see glimpses of order…

And it doesn’t matter.

I’m still just here.

Here I am again

Here I am again.

Do I give myself up for other? Do I stay with myself, my experience? I want to want me. I can feel it in my core. Solid and warm. Right there. When I stop and breathe, there she is. Tiny and wild, naked with mud on her belly and feathers in her hair. She jumps from branch to branch, knowing which will hold her weight. She jumps and rests, and feels and talks to the animals. She’s not afraid to look you in the eyes and scream and cry and laugh.

I want her.