Pressed.

The furor of cascading inward.

And constriction.

I felt it all immensely.

I watched bodies move around me lightly.

Appearing to float a centimeter above the ground.

How heavy were their words?

Their actions?

Their thoughts?

All the while lost in their existence I pressed a trigger.

Suddenly I no longer stood on the earth, but I became a part of it.

There was unity here, I thought.

But the soil absorbed all that was I.

All that was tangible.

There was no beginning of me any longer.

I became what surrounded me.

A mirror.

A root.

I was being processed, and pressed.

I didn’t ask for this I thought to myself.

I had no choice.

But did I ever?

I let go.

And fell inward.

I became.

Something different.

Something similar.

I was no longer I.

But I was never.

We Live In A Left Brain’d World

I tend to be an emotional creature. I always have been. I am reactionary, passionate about my dreams, opinions and I always feel the need to express how I feel. I tend to gravitate towards people with like minds that can be open, and vulnerable with themselves and also with their external world.
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This has caused me many difficulties cooperating with the ways of our modern society, and also affected my relationships to the world around me, and how I fit into it. I tried for years to fit myself into a different package that could see the world logically and with reason in a different way than seemed characteristic of me.
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But I have come to a realization that human beings have become to stuck in logic, and left brain thinking. I get lost in old novels of right brain thinking, and poetry that exercises the emotion to explain connection to a lost world. We celebrate these books, and old stories as history and lost art. But why does it have to be history? Why has it become lost? I believe there are damages to having a culture dominated by left brain thinking. Our world seems like a heap of fragments that are difficult to adhere. The sort of understanding we used to have has been lost.
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Wisdom has been replaced by knowledge, and knowledge has been replaced by information within chunks of data. For evolutionary reasons we have had to attend to the world in these two different ways. We have had to relate to the world at large, and at the same time have had to learn how to manipulate it. We need both ways, the narrow and the broad. Over time this narrowly focused intent, which does not see the whole picture, has taken over. And for most of us we believe it is the only way to see the world. I have been attempting for years to understand rationality. I have even fawned for it. I have hoped that with time and experience that it would be something that I would gain, like a life tenure. But the truth is, is that my right brain dominates my way of thinking. It always has.
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Since I was a little girl I used my intuition much more than my rationale to decide what way I was meant to walk. I used it to see the world, I used it to capture frames and stories, I used it to draw lines on blank paper, I used it to see people, to truly see people. It was my way to become a mirror to reflect back into the world the beauty that I had experienced.
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But there was always this discouragement by left brain thinkers to try and place me in a box. This is not to say that all that are mad or passionate are right in their way of being. It is not to say that one way is the best way. It is to say that there doesn’t always have to be a right and wrong. We are now created in a society that makes even thought a competition. Those who feel less are stronger, but how can that be so? How can cutting off a portion of who you are through introspection make you a stronger version of self? I have attempted it. I have sought out resources that could possibly calm my very wild nature, but the reality of it is that biologically we were given both halves of a whole for purpose. Intuition may not be the scientific winner of the People’s Choice Awards, but there is something to be said about those that allow themselves to first feel before thinking. There needs to be a merge of the two, but there doesn’t need to be the extinguishment of one to provide room for the prior. Just like in all battlefields we have to learn that on the other side is just another version of ourselves. Human, raw, real, reactionary and beautiful.
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When you think about what we praise in the spiritual world. We praise those who have detached successfully from the very accomplished creations of our own race. We now praise history if you think about it. We praise simplicity. I know in my community those that I find as mentors and teachers are those who do not care about time, or possessions, or purpose. They allow themselves to be. But the rationale of the left brain battles to tell us that we need purpose, we need path, we needs things to push us in a direction of success. What we need …..is to see what is right in front of us. We need to start seeing one another for who we truly are. We need to be more vulnerable, we need to be more open, we need to be more seen.

The Young French Girl

I was driving from Queenstown to Christchurch yesterday. I had spent the last four days there working towards my P1 license for paragliding, and the feeling of that is an entirely different story. There are no tangible words to describe some experiences, and I covet that about introspection. As I drove the charming roads that make up New Zealand’s South Island geography I started observing my response to the world around me. I began to feel a deep sensation of love for this experience. Not just the drive, but the experience of form, the experience of tangibility and consciousness. I once again reflected on the gratitude that I have for every single moment that I have been able to breath here, and that I have been able to feel love, pain, joy, sadness, anxiety, and tension. I felt so fortunate in that moment to be a sentient being, to be animated, and full of vitality….what a marvel I thought. What a miracle, what luck and splendor there is right here in this moment. I noticed the fresh air surrounding me as I flew by open fields, alpine lakes, rolling hills, and jagged mountaintops. I listened to music, and as always my playlists tend to lull me into a gentle wave of unanticipated thought and ingenuity.

It’s quite beautiful living in a country whose landscape and weather are as dramatic, and ever changing as your mental impressions. I began to feel quite kindred with the land around me. As the music put me at ease, I began to let the external silence around myself and the lyrics, cloak us like a warm blanket. I felt the sun on my arms, and noticed that the small hairs there were standing on end. They were alive, aware, and as conscious as I was in that moment. They were reacting to my own experience in that moment. I began to cry. Not because I am weak, and not because I am an empath….but simply because I felt so lucky, and fortunate to be blessed with a healthy physical and creative form that allows me to experience my life in the way that I do. I am constantly a student in my own physical form. I am constantly in company of my mental body as we learn more and more about one another, and understand the absence of separation within and without us. I feel that the more I comprehend, the more I began to sense. The more I sense, the more I see myself in all faces, in all experiences, in all places.

I kept driving until I came across a young girl on the side of the road. I saw myself in her, I noticed her joy and love for life, and her faith in the world around her. I pulled over and she ran towards the car. Her name was Cami and she was from France. She was ten years younger than me and was commencing her travels into the world on this trip to New Zealand. I couldn’t help but remember how it felt at that age to travel the world on my own. It’s a beautiful thing to be able to see the world, such a beautiful, raw, fragile and fortunate thing. We spoke for about five minutes, and then settled into silence aside from the music that I had been playing. We both smiled and observed the world around us, and every now I than we would let out a sigh of bliss for the magnificence around us. We didn’t need words because we both understood that in that moment, they were not necessary. I dropped her off at Lake Tekapo, and she said….. “ Thanks for the ride, your music lulled me into such a state of relaxation I feel so well rested now.” And then she was gone. I may see her again some day, but probably not. Life is beautiful that way, moments come and go, and some are beautiful, and some are painful. But the world will not stop for you to react to what may or may not happen. You just have to go with the flow, and soak in what you may in the short amount of time that you have. And maybe yesterday was just about enjoying a scenic drive with a pretty young French girl who reminded me how precious youth is. And reminded me how valuable experience is in those earlier years for helping to create our view of the world, and giving us the knowledge to guide ourselves through it benevolently.

Thoughts from a little girl……

 

Some days I think about my mother. I think about what she was like at this age, what she did on a daily basis, what she thought about herself, what she thought about her art, and if she saw in herself what others did. Did she get lost in her flaws, and self obsess and pity her downfalls, and if she did….were there also days that she allowed herself to be full of light or tenderness? My partner asked me a while ago if I had any good memories of my mother. We were biking somewhere, but I feel like I heard the silence of the wheel rotating again and again over itself before I could find any words to let out. Surely I had good memories with my mother. Surely she was not this dark memory that I had thought up. After all she carried through with her pregnancy, and held me in her stomach for nine months. And no matter the mistakes and decisions she made during that time……she gave me life. She gave me creation. I sometimes forget the immensity of that gift. No matter what she may have done to me, or not done for me ….she is the singular reason that I get to live and breathe today. So that is a pretty fucking beautiful memory.

I do remember a particular time when I was living with my grandparents, and my mother showed up with several bags of clothing. She took me into my room, and pulled out all of these clothes that any little girl would get enthusiastic about. I received my favorite pair of Little Mermaid tights that morning, with a matching Arial t-shirt. I would go on to wear those tights into my teens and I would only get rid of them when they became so tight that I begun to get the most heinous of wedgies. She had bought a disposable camera with her that day, and she took a couple of photos of me in every single outfit. She seemed so happy that day dressing me up, and taking my photos. Although she didn’t stay long she would go on to develop those photos, and add them to my grandparents photo album of me. I still have that album. But for some reason when I look at those photos I feel so disconnected from her. I hate that I question her intentions, but I feel like on that certain day her own unhappiness and guilt for not being a role model and mother to me pushed her to show up with gifts to win my adoration. I feel like the photos were a marking from her to prove that she was present in my life, and that she was a part of me. When I look at those photos I feel like she created a false happiness that day, but still I was happy. I loved seeing her, and I loved being seen by her. That day I felt like a princess, and I felt adored by my mother. So, yes….I guess that was a happy moment.

Maybe had I been more than a child then I could have told her that everything could have changed from that moment, and that she didn’t need to leave. But that’s the reality of it. I was a child, and I had nothing to offer her in the internal wisdom department at that time. It was up to her as the adult to fulfill that emptiness for herself, but she couldn’t and she did not. And I think I am beginning to understand why.

It’s a wild ride, this human life. We learn things much too late, and we know much too little when we have all the time in the world. She and I were on opposite spectrums of time. But I do know one thing….she loved to write poetry, and she loved to fill a blank page with words. So even though me may not have had a lot of pretty moments together…..she would be proud to know that words filtered through her, and fell into me.

I spent my whole life running away from who I thought she was, only to find out that a large piece of me was everything that I was looking for. I am, most definitely…. my poor tortured mother’s daughter. And I will spend my life self obsessing, and analyzing just what that means, but I do hope that I find answers in a more healthy way than my poor mother did …..and I do hope that I find them sooner than later.

In essence of International Women’s Day

….this is a shout out piece I wrote to all my ladies out there that are defining the world in a beautiful way, and that are doing more than any man I know to push the limits and raise the glass ceilings of the world. Send some love to the ladies of your life. You wouldn’t be here without them.

I do not really need to say what you already know.
But alas I will, since I must.
I do this because you have pushed me there, please know this.
I am at the edge.
And I highly dislike being forced to take up for myself when there is no need to do so.
But you have taken me there time, and time again.
So here we go.
I do not think I need to be labeled by any words that place me in a group of free thinkers as you call them.
I would hope that we are all free thinkers, wouldn’t you?
What label have you designed for yourself?
Is it kinder, truer, more powerful and more freely thinking?
Why is there a need to segregate, and separate?
A need to define the infinite.
A need to give subjective opinions on entire groups of people.
Whether you like it or not we share the same organic make up.
You can be black, grey, white, orange, yellow, liberal, conservative, fascist, egocentric, mysogenistic or a red faced teletubby for all I care.
But what matters is that the recipe for creating the magic that you think you are.
Is the same recipe that was thrown into the mix for me.
So here I am standing beside you, not a part from you…but a part of you.
You can’t take that science away.
You are of me, and from me.
You are from a vessel very similar to one that I possess.
And you could not have gotten here without me, or without it.
So you can hate me, you can label me, you can deny me, you can define me, you can loathe my mind and my words, and you can try to rid the public world of my influence and others like me.
But if we leave the stage, then so do you.
That is the reality of the magic show.
You may be the magic, but we are the magicians.
We are here to stay, but you are not.
Unless you work with us, your presence does not become real without us.
In some shape or another we are your sisters.
And your mothers, daughters, coworkers, neighbors, bosses, trash ladies, speakers of the house, CEO’S, grandmothers, and queens.
You are here because we created you.
Our very nature fabricates your existence.
You are from us, and a part of us whether you defy us or not.
You may call us weak, but it is not weakness that we wear.
It is disappointment for your general lack of appreciation from which where you came.
No matter how far you run, our truth runs in your DNA.
The story of us is etched into the sidewalls of your veins, and without us there is no blood to support your being.
Even if you try to hide us away from the rest, your very biology will reveal our supreme existence to the world.
The only reason you are even here to pledge your dislodge against us, is because we allowed you to be.
Have some respect for the women in your life, you would not even be here without one.

High School Dilemmas.

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I remember thinking.

“I cannot be anything, other than what I am.”

And I remember wandering.

“If that is my limitation, how do I move past this? You cannot see me as I do, and I cannot bend at your will. So where do we go from here? How am I to relate to you? And if you do not accept me, then why even vex me with your conclusions on who you think I am? Why not cast only disregard in my direction? Is my irrelevant presence worth your indispensable time?”

I did not understand the rules of the teen societal game I was being forced to play. I wasn’t even part of the game, and still I had to play by their rules.

I remember time and time again these same questions scrolling through my mind like clockwork.

I was a young girl then. The young girl with her hair in pigtails, and big dreams in her eyes. The kind of girl that wanted to believe in the transparency of the world around her, while disregarding the darkness that shadowed her.

I remember thinking to myself as I walked long corridors to open doored classrooms… “That the only thing open about these rooms are in fact the doors.”

Half present, and half vulnerable to my abstract interpretation of the world, I sat at my desk daydreaming.

I was surrounded by subjects that never wore faces to me. I gave up on observing them as people, when they gave up on observing me as a fellow peer.

I created a world more accepting than the world had ever been to me at that time.

My peers did not understand me, and my seniors felt sympathy for me. Sympathy is not what a young girl wants.

Inspiration, tolerance, approval, and desire…..those are things that a young girl wants.

Stares, aversion, cruelty, and misunderstanding ….these most assuredly are not what they want.

“If I am discarded by the people that have crafted me, and more so by the people that are meant to be relatable to me….. why am I even here? Why am I trying to push into a world that does not openly invite me in? It is exhausting trying to find approval among antagonists. Surely this is not what the world had intended when it woke me up upon liberation.”

Today, I stand in the middle of streets, and under trees littered across green acres of park terraces asking myself a different variety of questions.

“Why did I seek your acceptance, why did I seek any of their acceptance? Acceptance is but subjective. Most times it is not rational, it is self-regarding and linear.”

I realize now that that young girl that was looking for acceptance was looking for it in a space of misguidance. Peer among peer acceptance is somewhat ironic, don’t you think?

At a time when no one feels accepted, but everyone needs to be so …how can one be so sure of obtaining the one true craving?

 

When the rain falls….stillness settles in.

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So it’s raining outside. And I must say that I am not one of those people with a natural aversion to the rain, I feel quite sustained by it.

It is a natural breaking point for me. A place of stillness created, and surrounded by moving particles of water.

The world shifts to a gentle halt as the sky sheds it’s excessive debris.

This morning I put my rain jacket on with the intent to meet the weather head on today with open arms. I got on my bike, and rode through the opaque morning night light to get to the yoga studio.

There is something satisfying about teaching yoga, or practicing when it is raining. The sound lulls my words into a natural rhythm when I teach, and the rain drops chattering amongst one another as they roll down the glass pales of the studio windows give me comfort in my postures as I practice. I begin to focus on the sound of the rain drumming on surfaces near and far, and notice that all sounds begin to resonate within.

I feel like I am hearing more than I could before. I am tuned in somewhere else. I am still within my body, but also without. I am neither here nor there.

I wonder what it is like to fall from the sky only to be lifted back up again.

I wonder aimlessly about the life span of a raindrop. I see my mind winding off into the indefinite, but occasionally I allow it.

These days I discover a distinctive manner of stillness in my body. My mind finds minute movements, but it is in the most harmonious of fashions.

My limbs grow static, but not fatigued. My body settles into visual tranquility, but there is conceptual elevating happening beneath the surface. The hairs on the back of my arms begin to stand up as I breathe in profoundly, and breathe out sincerely. With the circulation of my breath, my body begins to feel liberated.

I feel like a hoarder of all things who’s just offered all material items to the world. I am left unoccupied, and I am at ease in my own body. There is nothing left here to inflict chaos. A movement of solidarity has fused from within.

It is the exceptional nature of grounding that this weather offers me. Mother nature embraces me back into her arms, and I find solace and reconciliation there. I am so grateful for her intrusion into my day that I feel devoted, and empathetic towards her.

I feel I must cease in her company especially as she cries down upon me.

So I do.

When the rain falls, a part of me does as well.

A part falls away.

A tension, a release, a moment.

I am left transfixed by a stillness that can only be the product of personal revelation.

I am sitting and staring out the window with my eyes engrossed on a solitary raindrop rushing down the corridor of streaming water.

I wonder what it is like to fall from the sky only to be lifted back up again.

Day. 5. Battle.

1866488-bigthumbnailA writer has an extensive connection with words.

Just as a dreamer has a strong affiliation with imagination, and a speaker has a significant rapport with tone.

The dreamer with a love of spoken word, sometimes has a satirical relationship with it all.

Words ….can get you into trouble.

Dreams…. can get you into trouble.

Speech…. can get you into trouble.

But disregarding your veracity can leave you dejected.

I speak from words of personal experience, and know that many of you can relate.

If you stand in similar shoes to mine then I know that there are people in this world that may find your verbal, and written tactics quiet unpolished, and weighted.

I know there are people that do not harmonize with my lifestyle choices. Quiet simple, and minimalistic as they may be, some see them as egocentric.

When you live a life of authenticity and do only what you want to do, and only what you love to do….people find encouragement and compassion for what you do, or they have aversions and judgment towards you.

Sometimes their aversions to you, mean that they shut your voice down.

Or that they try to.

The main objective you are faced with here, is to not allow external projections of your life fall into your own subjective judgments of yourself.

The grander you dream, the more likely your imagination’s influence will cross indefinite boundaries.

The more stridently you speak, the more likely one of your words will fall into the ears of a foe.

The more intensely and keenly you write, the more likely you will stir sentiment and response within the core of the readers that come across your words.

You cannot discontinue walking, just because you are fearful that there may be an obstruction ahead.

If you did so, you would get nowhere in life, and you would grow quite jaded.

You cannot stop speaking, just because you fear that you will say the wrong thing.

If you did so you would make your way through life with angst of not being heard or respected.

You also cannot stop thinking, dreaming, and creating just because you are petrified that someone will oppose you, or not grasp your vision or opinion.

Opposition is a nourishing part of life, a natural part of interaction, and a tool for progression.

In a society divided, this is the time to be all things loud.

We all need to stand up.

Speak up.

Dream up.

Write.

Debate.

Express.

Now is not the time to hide, and hope that you can get out without being discovered.

This is the time to step out from under the rock, stand tall above it, and yell from the roof tops.

Now more than ever we need to not be afraid to debate, because we have already stood on the sidelines, in the shadows for far too long.

We lived there for decades.

We found comfort in the silence.

Now is the time to elevate our voices, and let out a rumble.

Sometimes when the right voices are too fearful to speak, the wrong voices swiftly cloak the words of the genuine and something sordid arises out of the weakness.

Sharp thought and evolution are being lost under a blanket of deception.

An illusion is being created by the wrong words that are breaking the surface. These words are creating a mold that was never sought, but that was also never refused.

We cannot combat wrong doing, with thoughts of battle.

We must actually stand up and go to battle.

Through our words, through our opinions, through the every day choices that we make.

Through the way we treat others, and not just our own.

To the way we treat the world around us.

The largest problem we face is the illusion that we are separate from the rest.

We must quickly revolutionize our ways, and we must quickly speak up.

Because change is here, and whether we participate in it or not…..it is still going to happen.

So do you want to be part of it, or a direct product of it?

It’s your choice.

 

Day 4. Nothingness

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There aren’t always words.

There doesn’t need to be.

There is something beautiful about the blank space left between broken phrases.

Something soothing, and pleasing about lingering between the pauses.

Something intimate about a space held for absolutely nothing.

So why do we feel the constant need to fill the silence?

There is this need to relentlessly be stimulated through word, thought and touch.

A longing to leave no corners of the mind, or mouth left untouched without word or reflection.

Speaking solely to hear our own voices, and words.

Creating sentence after sentence of the same stories that we have told time, and time again. 

So many overwhelming emotions, reactions, and imaginative cognitions to express.

And all at our finger tips ready to be spoken to any friendly ear that engages itself with us.

We sit behind ourselves’ self , and watch the words pour out like a broken record.

Tired of the same recurrences, but at mercy to their old patterns.

We think maybe, just maybe this time someone will hear us.

“Someone will understand the words that we speak.

This time the words will mean something more than before.

And maybe, just maybe if someone TRULY hears what it is that we have to say.

Maybe then …….we can just shut the f&*( up.”

We continue to tell ourselves this in order to justify our need to feel kindled.

In order to break the habit we have to find new ways to fan the old flames.

We have to create new behaviors to interconnect with ourselves.

We have to find new ways to relate to silence.

We must learn to recognize the luster that lives in silence.
 
We must recognize the peaceful quality of nothingness.
 
We must experience the weightlessness of breaking expectation.

When we let go of our fear of less.

We gain so much more.

We stand vulnerable in a space of solitude, in the present grace of our own minds without words to describe the experience.

And we feel no need to describe it.

Because we realize there is no one to describe it to.

It is a beautiful link we have made with nothing, and nothing can be explained of it.

The craving to explain it is over ruled by the desire for the peace that it has shaped.

And with time and practice, we begin to find an old friend in the long pauses.

And we linger in them, and we are swayed by them, and we find ease within them.

Words, Upon Words, Upon Words.

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I remember the words they used to use to define me.

 I would never have used them myself, but they seemed so strong in their condemnation of who they thought I was ….that I started to register and identify with a list of unsavory adjectives.

My internal dialogue was quite self-deprecating at that age, as it can be.

I was not sure who I was becoming, and I was uneasy with change.

I did not know how to regulate my emotions, or at the least… hide them.

I felt weak, and misinterpreted.

Worse yet. I began to feel sorry for myself.

I came to the revelation that everyone knew something that I did not.

They all knew me better than I knew myself.

“The sad girl.”

“She’s so strange.”

“She seems lost.”

“She’s weird.”

“Nobody likes her.”

Something about being young brings certain vulnerability to external projections.

If not handled compassionately, an individual will begin to take on projections created from others, and adopt them as there own creation.

I would not call it a weakness; I would call it an opening.

The heart, mind, and soul know no other way but to trust the world around them and what it has to offer.

And if what the world has to offer is harmful, then the young will invite destruction into their core being with open arms.

Destruction finds companionship in the young. It knows where to initiate a bond, and it knows just the right way to dig its’ claws into the skin of the vulnerable and exposed.

I do not relate to that girl anymore.

I rarely think of her.

I feel severed from her willingness to let others define her.

But a part of her still visits me from time to time.

She visits me in my moments of weakness.

She visits in those moments that I wallow about in self-doubt.

She visits the I within that sees herself as a victim.

She visits the lost adolescent in search of an individual identity, and a family.

She visits the abandoned, abused, and unwanted that resides deep down.

I stand here almost 15 years later, in a completely different lifescape.

Things could be no more different than they are in this moment.

And things could be no more similar.

 I tell myself I am unaffected by my past.

I want to believe that my past bears no fruit for my future.

I try and sweep my dirty secrets under the rug.

I try to hide my scars, my mistakes, and my misfortunes.

But tiny particles of intention and resignation lie at the base of my core being.

Fragments of past lives lived well, and past lives lived in pain.

They settle together in the deepest central core of my being, and they gossip.

They tell each other secrets, and they keep my autobiographical movies winding and unwinding tirelessly.

 They have begun to swoon me now from time to time with phrases from external sources.

“She is inspirational.”

“She has the life I want to live.”

“She is strong.”

Different words, such different words spoken about the same girl.

She hasn’t changed. She is still organically the same as she always was.

She loves the same, she dreams the same, she writes the same, she cries the same.

She was unseen before, and while parts of her remain unseen….she has begun to show the world a fearlessness, that although strong is still not unyielding.

She bleeds the same, she trips the same, and she still describes herself with all the words that have ever been etched into her skin.

She just knows how to wear them now.

She can cover the words with depictions from a life well lived, but the words still lay across the bare of her body like a carved etching on a stone wall.

She may stand elevated, but she is not unchallenged.

She may be tough, but she is still fragile.

Like everyone that was before her, and everyone that will come after her…..No one person is left untouched by projection.

Not even the fiercest man on earth.

I do not say this to ask you for your permission to like myself.

I am not asking you to praise me.

I am not asking for you to try and understand me, and uncover parts of me that may seem damaged and misunderstood.

I say this, and expose my own vulnerability so that you may do the same.

No one is free of judgment or disdain.

We have all given words away, that we cannot take back.

And we must accept that there are people walking around in this world with our adjectives etched into their shoulders, and onto their ribs. Untiringly winding trails along their bodies made of our vowels.

I would say that that is an infinite tribute of our own legacy, worn on the face of another.

So I say this with all sincerity.

Because like you, …..I wish to wear the words of my life with grace, and ease, and humility….and I would hope that you and the others that may come behind you…..would give me the gift of compassion, and grace to dress me with your best.