dream, girl

I don’t believe in tunnel vision. Tunnel vision tells me i must reduce my life to one thing. That it is a sin to be still. That i must laser my gaze, squeeze my days, and bend my spine till it cracks, for this one thing. 

Maybe this thing will cost me every other thing. Like book filled baths in the morning before work and my long, slow release of the day. Maybe it will cost me my exhale.

So i’m taking my time. I’m creating a shrine around my dream, planting its seeds on lips and in open chests- so it can be held in their hearts too. I am infusing my days with the things that matter- not work over play, or happiness over health, success over rest. But both. both. And both. Ritual, not sacrifice. 

Doing it this way is tidal. I feel every wave- I (almost) welcome its distraction. How it stops time, pulls me into new currents. Like in teaching, distraction can be used as a powerful tool of navigation. 

I’m starting a podcast. It’s flawed & funny & soulful & sexy & me. I can’t go alone anymore. I need my hand held, I need the warmth of people around me, and I need the medicine of conversation.

But I like the dark. The voices in my head are warring. One loves her comfort zone, another tells me it’s too much work, and her? She says i have no right to come on a microphone and tell my story- she’s seen every time i’ve slipped and sliced my skin. 

I run through my reel of wrongs. A rush of guilt washes over me. What if i trip over my words or I am never bold enough to just be real, or fresh or- worst of all, what if this personal endeavour mixes with my personal relationships and pollutes them. What if she is right?

Putting this together has taught me to be mindful of my expectations, especially within the confines a pandemic. I was inspired by the idea that every persons life has an ‘individualised curriculum’. Sitting down with my closies, talking about their twists, turns and tools gives me a glimpse into their curiculum. A space to honour our different incarnations, to share our different maps.

About this time two years ago when I was struggling to move forward in my life I wrote Scar to map. I describe standing at a mountain edge, torn between running and jumping, or finding a way, somehow, to build a bridge. As seductive as it would be to jump, I realise now that it is suicidal. But a bridge is an offering. It would take me longer, of course, but it would mean that many others could cross too.

I am learning new things, it is difficult but I am trusting. I spend a little too long on the floor when things flop but I am determined to see this through, and I’m not going to hold my breath.