A New Life is Waiting

in what sets your soul alight

I’ve started to paint a new picture of my life. One with tea rose pink clouds and textured verdant pastures with sun starched tips I feel bristling under the palms of my hands.

I inhale an illustrious breeze, rich with ancient brine and shatterings of open faced seashells once cradling iridescence, begging to reflect your own image back to you.

Time stretches like gently pulled taffy until tendrils meet threads of sweetness I find myself swathed in, recreating a new cocoon for which I must curl up into and nest.

To create space between heart and breastplate- my aortic valve, not pressed so closely to the surface, not working so hard to congeal the fractured pieces left in the wake of the other; the wake of myself. Enduring the meltaway stitches as they bring a wholeness back to centre. An anchor to my core, whilst sitting with every microseism threatening to shred this image of my highest self to tatters, like a frothing animal spotting prey. A scream escapes from my diaphragm as if released from years of crushing compression. 

What surrounds, holds. What is held, surrounds.

A symphonic crescendo of cicadas lick the surface of the land- virile, fertile, grounded in their mission. My body floods with a remembering much greater than myself; merely a channel for wonder and suffering and awe. The scent of lasting dianthas, wilfully return to their place, irrigating my cells with notes of cinnamon and clove- a powerful reminder, they have always been here. And, perhaps, so have I.

My feet slip into soft carpets of sand; hair wild, hands caked with clusters of dirt whose primal stories speak volumes with each burst of life. I marvel delicately as a bird slurps a thick worm from the ground like handmade pasta; a bee hovers romantically over a potent patch of yarrow.

I can’t see behind me, or much past the circumference of my billowing skirt as I observe myself spinning, arms extended, in the centre of this ever expanding universe, warming my face in the ebullient tangerine sun. Each ember of stardust, each speck of sea salt, fueled by the will and desire to rebuild on a different timeline. One where I get to start again, anew. One where I get to be me.