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I’m not sure if I’m waiting to finally have it all together or if I think everyone else is in on a secret that I’ve just not got yet but every day I have a variation on the theme of ‘ Well, this is it. Today’s the day, I can feel it, I know it, it’s going to be kick arse and I’m ready’. Today’s the day for what I wonder?
 
I was listening to a song that goes something along the lines ‘one day baby we’ll be old.. and think of all the stories that we could have told’ and I thought ‘well I must be old because do I have some stories!’
 
In those stories I know what I’d want to tell you; that I slayed the dragon, swallowed my demons whilst laughing in the face of my nightmares before finally finding my way to living happily ever after but the truth is much more ordinary.
 
The truth is that I breathe through the fear and, at times, pain, even on the days that it doesn’t feel possible because, it’s always possible. So here’s to our stories and, perhaps, one day even telling them.
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in Thoughts 418

This evening, over supper and soft light my soul friend, ultimate mirror and true guide caught up. We’ve been missing things - each other mostly - and it was time. Time to find our way back.

But in truth I never wanted to go back, I wanted to find another path and that was probably where we missed each other. I had to find that - or am finding that - all on my own. It’s been the strangest thing and truthfully I never thought, of all the people in my life, the one person who really sees me, would be the one casualty of this experience.

I don’t know what made me lose my way. No that’s not the truth I know exactly what happened, bit by bit everything about me was chipped away until the last pebble dropped the brick wall I had built and nothing, nothing, was left. I took it for granted. The wall I mean. I thought it was a wishing well of sorts, a place I went to pull another defensive brick from in order to throw it at the blows life kept dealing me - you know that ‘attack is the best form of defence' mentality. Keep throwing those bricks and surely the attacks will be defected?

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in Thoughts 951

My mother told me that when I meet someone I like, I had to ask them three questions:
 

  1. What are you afraid of?
  2. Do you like dogs?
  3. What do you do when it rains?


...of those three, she says the first one is the most important. “They've got to be scared of something, everybody is. If they aren’t afraid of anything, then they don’t believe in anything, either.”

I met you on a Sunday, right after the concert, one look and my heart fell into my stomach like a trap door.

On our second date, I asked you what you were afraid of. “Spiders, mostly. Being alone. Little children, like, the ones who just learned how to push a kid over on the playground. Oh and space. holy shit, space.”

I asked you if you liked dogs. "I have three.” I asked you what you do when it rains. “Sleep, mostly. Sometimes I sit at the window and watch the rain drops race. I make a shelter out of plastic in my back garden for all the stray animals; leave them food and a place to sleep.”

He smiled like he knew. Like his mum told him the same thing. “How about you?”

Me?

I’m scared of so many things. Of forgetting. Of people not knowing the true me. Of the hole in the o-zone layer, of the lady next door who never smiles at her dog, of not knowing enough, or knowing too much and especially of all the secrets the government must be breaking it’s back trying to keep from us.

I love dogs so much, you have no idea. I sleep when it rains. I want to tell everyone I love them. I want to find every stray animal and bring them home. I want to wake up in your hair and make you shitty coffee and kiss your neck and draw silly stick figures of us. I never want to ask anyone else these questions ever again.

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in Thoughts 745

Not much else to add to this fabulous talk by Brene Brown when she talks of showing up. Here's to my fellow arena go-ers because "Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyhow" ....

 

 

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in Thoughts 693
It’s a funny thing - this internal divide between intellect and emotion, like a dance between two enemies which is mildly erotic but something that you feel, ever so slightly, embarrassed to be witnessing.
 
It’s taken me to middle age to realise that this journey is, I think, never ending. I have waxed the intellect side of things - consciously understanding and allocating experiences into little tick boxes - something learned - tick; something experienced - tick; something to do - tick; some more work to do on myself - double tick. The emotional side of things is far less chartered territory and much rockier too. But recently - this year mostly I admit - its been an arena that I’ve had to be in, I gave myself no other option - there really is only so long that you can happy away a burning topic and frankly, when you decide to live life authentically it doesn’t really make any sense to turn away, although admittedly its easier to do so.
 
I believe that life offers us the opportunity to lean into and learn from the changes and, when I’m being brave I do that, lean in that is.
 
And so this journey, this recent interlude has led me to feeling a deep sadness that has underpinned so much. For someone who can happy away most days and deeds this is a tough path to tread. You see intellectually and on paper my life is just all that - smiles and freedom, choice and happiness, luck and laughter - and it is, for the most part. There’s not a moment I’m not grateful for everything that my life choices come to show - even now when its so hard and treading water seems more like manovering through molasses. I know it will pass, things will shift and lightness will return but in the meantime do I just sit here - with a mouth full of teeth - without words on my lips? Because that’s what it feels like. It feels like if I open my mouth the tears come out and whilst I’m never adverse to a good cry practically prevails and work must be done!
 
I saw someone earlier this week …. I had no idea why I was seeing her, again I was led in that direction by a deep sense that I needed her. I’m not someone who asks for help and it’s deeply uncomfortable for me to do so but it didn’t seem like help at the time. I sat down, she held my hand and I let it go. The deep sense of sadness and loneliness, oh the loneliness seems crippling. How can someone, me, who has so much love and so much attention and so much so much so much feel so lonely …. all the time - even when I don’t really feel it, does that make any sense at all?
 
Writing has, for me, always been an outlet but recently the words don’t come - the intention is there but the words are stuck in the space between what I know and how I feel. And even now writing these words I feel like someone elses' hands are typing the letters - I can see them moving, I can hear me breathing, I can see myself sitting here but it all just seems like a version of me?
 
And in all of that, in all of the sadness, I still have a deep sense that everything will be ok. I’ll go home, I'll park the car, the dogs will welcome me like their very breath comes from me, I'll take in the garden and her generous beauty, I'll know I'm safe and loved, my house will share her small sweet smile, wrap her arms around me and say, again ‘"everything will be ok in the end, if its not ok, it’s not the end."
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