Vulnerable

a p r i l   28

My mouth lays mute due to my marinating mind. I make myself a muggy glass of Yellow Pau d’Arco tea with a dollop of Tupelo honey. I flip through my journal as my lavender and basil plant begin to soak in the morning’s maturation, and translate the past month’s journal entries to the digital screen. 

They illustrate the transition and unsteadiness that has taken grasp. Transition through a new job title, though a promotion, has been stretching me in aspects of time and mental capacity. Unsteadiness through members of my family being scattered across the states, and the fear of loss of connection that rises within me. With Ricky’s family, we’ve been trying to alternate months to see his mother, who recently fell ill at the start of this year, and visit to support his father—who is now her primary caretaker. 

I know that I’m not alone. Every soul is facing some degree of adversary at this point, at every point. But I like to admit mine after I’ve pulled the gold from the circumstance, once the tough feelings are eased by a calmer current standing. Writing the heaviness off my chest fills me with a certain type of discomfort—staring filled pages, full of words depicting the frustration and turbulence that has carried into my home, my heart. 

But I’m learning that it’s necessary. 

This endeavor allows a written timeline of growth; for miracles are only miracles when the outcome is contrasted with what was once current. I’m finding that there’s a special vulnerability that’s held in the broken sentences, the words that don’t link up quite right. So below holds my current standing through the month’s journal entries: raw, brittle, honest. 

• • •

a p r i l   14

I picked up an old book today, 
and saw pen scratches in the margins. 

I recognized them;
that sloppy script was mine. 
They were poems penned by the book’s inspiration. 

Upon reading the interjections, 
I became jealous. 

I was so reckless with my writing,
writing for an audience of one—
and recently I’ve encountered some turbulence, 
causing an emptied-ink pen.

Write with vulnerability,
whispers the husband with the pure-gold heart, 
what if I can’t,
I say softly with tear stained cheeks.
 

• • •

a p r i l  22

Purple Pansies

Outside, 
across the incandescent sky, 
the boreal chickadee bird dips and ascends, 
a fluttering pattern with acute acceleration. 

Inside, 
a heartbroken husband, 
speaks softly to his wife; 
combing her hair behind her ear, 
gently kissing the top of her head, 
as the natural light shines, 
gently comforts, 
warming her skin. 

The mother who can see but not speak, 
feel but not move; 
but oh, 
how her son sings for her—
strumming until blisters burst. 

And her sister, 
places purple pansies in eyeshot, 
and plants a shephard’s hook outside the window—
dangling a glass cylinder;  
it’s filled with seeds for the round-bellied robins, 
the yellow-breasted chat, 
and the cuckoo with it’s black-bill. 

And though her head lays heavy, 
I hope her heart is heaping full—
for beauty is unfolding everywhere, 
even when things feel broken.

• • •

a p r i l   27

I’m not too sure of what I’m afraid of—
letting ink flow through flooding frustration. 

Maybe, I’m afraid that the words won’t come. 
Maybe, I’m afraid that the words will come but that they won’t hold weight. 
Maybe, I’m afraid that the weighty words will come, 
but that they become a burden rather than an encourager. 

Array of Ambitions

We are entrusted with talents—a pocket-sized gift hidden away within us. Unwrapped, it is a brilliant display of dynamic creativity and is within each of us. 

I recognized my art through an old sketchpad and pen. The notebook had no lined paper, and was already filled with my older brother’s illustrations; they were detailed, perfectly shaded and he always made them seem effortless. I decided I would etch a few notes or scratches and shuffled around in my bag to fish for a writing instrument. The pen I found was stolen from a waitress at a Chinese restaurant and was spotty in between strokes. I feverishly started to compose a letter, after scribbling out a few indistinguishable drawing attempts.

The letter itself was to my mother, a poetry-heavy depiction of my new life since moving cross-country. I was enamored with the potential the future possessed, but was fasted to the past. I was eighteen at the time. With each tiny word inscribed, came revival. I was able to comprehend my current state, dissolving each detail to paper. I snatched out the letter and spoke the words written to my sister, and shared the unfetter my mind felt when I wrote. I started habitually visiting a café where I would write every weekend, and revisit this same feeling. 

Six months later, I dropped my pen for about a year. Suffocating the seed inside that wanted to sprout, I was distancing myself due to self-doubt. I wasn't satisfied with the poems I was producing. Rather than practicing and being patient with myself, I quickly filled my time hollow diversions. Without writing, my mind was cloudy and unable to organize itself, a constant conveyer belt of thoughts and ideas that piled up against a wall. I felt restricted, bound, and apathetic. I thank God that I received support and encouragement from my husband and my sister to start scribing again. 

Over the past few years, the dedication and persistence has grown exceedingly. In the beginning, it was a therapeutic release—but has now madly matured into a passion. If I were to be commended on my poems back then, I would have thrown a shy smile and dropped my head. But this gift has been planted with purpose; it will someday be the orange tree that flowers fruit and blooms.  

These endowments are not always brought to our mind automatically or smooth at the start. Although it begins concealed, once uncovered, it is as if the habit can never be replaced. Writing and painting are sweet endeavors that pull my creativity and solidify my ideas. It embraces the moment, and channels it to a visual translation.

The trades you hold are exquisite and unique to you. Your background, experiences, perceptions, creativity, nor vision that you encompass has been planted identically within another. For we all possess these gifts—this array of ambitions—which have been entrusted to us to propagate and grow. 

Patience

There are periods within our lives where patience is forced upon us. I currently reside in these hazy mornings of pause; I find that these moments evoke an array of emotion and thought.

The wind cannot be coerced on a calm day, nor can hot water be boiled solely from desire. Often, I find that even the Nimbostratus clouds are transparent, unable to drown out the rays of the sun. Once I became sober to the poetic posture of this state, I was able to recognize that these lapses within living are intentional. I think back to Emerson’s essay, Nature, and know that even the forests speak to the apparent beauty within tranquility.

This revelation of staying within the quiet resonates; it seeps like lavender tea—strong yet gradual, saturating my thoughts. In these moments, I am introduced to realignment, proportioning my precedences. I embrace this and continue to ponder upon it while I watch the sun rise and sip my tea. Recollecting what’s internal, I bring thought to priorities and their significance, for they have been made magnified during this occasion. When we are overwhelmingly occupied, this act is often overlooked. I recall what I savor and the natural practices I partake—reevaluating what has been manifested. I balance its magnitude—to decipher and develop, continuously growing even in this state of stillness.

This aurora exposes matters which foster restoration. This patience has encouraged peace, devoting time towards identifying thorns and its process of plucking them from my flesh. Focused forgiveness of myself, and others—truly understanding the progression of relief. This is a topic in which I could pen for hours, but those are letters read on a future date.

The future will be rapid but since I have realigned myself, I know that no compromises will be taken. Even during the dawn, as this current outlook overturns towards the next, this sequence has transitioned me gracefully towards the sunrise.

This expands the hope and anticipation possessed. For I am rejoicing towards the future, even if I am waiting within today. This is the foggy dew with its crisp humidity. By choosing to become saturated with this stillness—this serenity has become as sweet as honey, balanced with the tranquility and calmness of chamomile.