How come places seem smaller when you return to them as an adult? It’s strange. I’m taller now, but not that much taller.
There’s an eeriness to this place. Like the trees are murmuring amongst one another- is it her? Not at all the magical place I remember it to be. The catalyst for my adventures.
I feel lonely here. But I feel lonely everywhere these days. Some obscure thing I somehow brought upon myself. I don’t know what I expected. Was I to find what I once lost- gently rolling from my hand, leaving it abandoned on the ground, long ago.
What a strange thing to happen to us. I think I’ve been searching ever since, in the faces and words of people who also abandoned theirs.
Waiting to again feel that old enigmatic feeling wash over. What was that? I want it back. Do you think we can ever get it back, as adults? Hear the trees talk below our feet again.
My world was bigger back then. Now it’s small, just like this place.
I wrote this poem recently about the loss of our childlike wonderment and creativity as we grow older.
I would rather be a free spirit than sit mindless at a desk obeying the man. I would rather my wild curls tangle in the wind and show that I am the lioness of my own life. Lay on the heat of a quiet road after a hot day and smile up at the stars. Read my days away with the breeze passing across my face. Collecting memories and moments. Not ‘stuff’. I would rather my love for myself be defined by me, not society. I would rather up and leave, see life through nature than be chained to a mortgage or job that drinks the life from me through a straw in my veins. I would rather be full of life and take a risk than be beaten down by expectations, only to be left a skeleton of who I was created to be. I have no obligation to live my life in any other way than how I choose. I do not need to be the societal definition of beauty to be successful or worthy of love. My kindness, my intelligence, and my love is my definition of beauty. I would rather my success be measured not by the accumulation of ‘things’, but by the gathering of joyful moments with friends, family, and myself.
I am absolutely obsessed with making art from field notes and natural specimen collections. This week I immersed myself in collecting plant specimens and making specimen name tags and poetry on my typewriter. (If you zoom in on the picture you can read my poem) I have always been in love with flora and fauna and feel a deep connection with them. I express this through my creative projects as much as possible. The marriage between nature and I is sacred.
☽ The moon poem ☽
Rise, said the moon. You must journey on to meet the sun. I will be here waiting to hold you when your day is done. When you return, woman of the wild, tell me all you’ve learned. I will guide you through the dark, as you rest in the bosom of mother earth.
They forget like fools that each generation of women builds on the sacrifices and triumphs of the one before.
Born to this world with strength in our bones. Through an initiation of fire, prejudice, judgement and control. We still choose to rise up like those before. We will not worship them upon their thrones. They forget like fools that each generation of women builds on the accomplishments and courage of the one before.
Hear the collective groans- Of those who choose to look the other way, while keeping a hand on the puppet strings. They forget like fools that each generation of women builds on the strength and backbone of the one before.
We are not their playthings. They will not hear us wail. We have come to cut the strings. And forge this trail. For the next generation of women who will build on the sacrifices and triumphs of the one before.
Woman, is the most natural antidote on this earth. How many times has she been broken down and burned at the stake. Crucified for the womb and breasts that gave life.
And yet, Woman, carries us like the wind carries our prayers. Cures what hurts, and fills the desert with water. This body of hers is a vessel conjured of a billion stars and speaks the language of the divine feminine.
And yet, Woman, carries the trauma of thousands of years. It took generations to scrub a corner clean. Her knees bruised but did not care. Still forging a path between the weeds.
And yet, Woman, to hate herself is an easy and lazy thing. But to love unconditionally takes the strength they tried to rip from her core. Emerging as the collective woman she once dreamt of being.
Woman, was not given the breath in her lungs to kill it out, and quell her voice. Voices are being elevated and paths forged so that women like us can follow, and be free to wear in a path of our own. Woman, is a revolution in motion.