I have learned that there is no secret to happiness. There is no list or magical formula. There is just a state of being alive, with your eyes as open as your heart. It is a feeling if you simply let yourself feel.
Happiness pulses through your veins; it’s just a matter of whether you can hear it between heartbeats. Can you hear it in your dreams? Your very soul coos you to sleep using a lullaby deep within your core.
Did you know it wakes when you sleep?
You can choose to hate the rain or dance in it. You can choose to stare at the broken pieces of yourself or enjoy the challenge of putting the puzzle pieces together.
You can choose to speak ill, but do not expect sugar on your tongue. Only when you speak with positivity laced between breaths will you become drunk with joy.
There is no secret to happiness. It is always within you and ready to erupt into laughter if you...
You look at yourself, and realize that while you were busy entrusting the Universe with your happiness, the Universe, in all its wisdom, had been busy setting up these tests to make sure you can actually implement all that you've been observing along the way, and not just being theoretically wise, but practically so as well. Cosmic pop quiz -- that's what these are. Exciting? Sure. Challenging? You bet. Fun? Well, not always. Necessary? That's for you to find out. My personal compass points to the word 'absolutely' on that one.
Keep turning people into poems. Keep inhaling him and keep pressing his face into your memory so you won't ever have to be without it. Keep letting your body guide him. Keep arching your back so that he has a better view of your... heart.
There is an image that returns to haunt me every now and then. I am on a dock, alone, and off in the distance is a party boat. I can hear people laughing, music playing, champagne glasses tinkling. I have been left behind and no one cares.
Things break, darlin'. Daybreak. Waves break. Wind breaks. Break-ups. Breakdowns. Bones break. You can break a horse. A record. A promise. A home. A heart. It's what we do with the pieces that matters. This is what is beautiful. The mosaic is the masterpiece.
Reconnecting with the activities that light you up will fan the flames of your Spark and bring it back to life. Make a list of all those things you love to do, or used to do, or dreamed of doing. Do a collage in your journal or on a piece of watercolor paper of images and words that bring you joy.
My eyes have witnessed the devastating effects a community's willful abandonment; and my eyes were made to witness this in the name of 'family, love and religion'. These eyes of mine have been silent observers through years of shame, self-loathing and self-inflicted guilt and self-destruction. They have been here always silently watching… never judging…
What holds true for purses does not hold true for snow globes. I will 'not' encase myself like a vacuum-packed piece of meat or, be still my shivering soul, bury my core beneath perpetual showers of ice.
Of course, I had intended to send it, but I didn’t know the address. I had never been to his apartment. That part I chalked up to emotional and physical child abuse; he didn't want me to know where he lived. It didn't excuse the fighting and the melodramatic mind games, but I accepted it for what it was: a relationship with meaning that made little sense.
I need to turn if all off,
for a little while.
in this inky madness,
find my roots again.
Between who I am
and what I was.
There are tears
in this black whole,
tears deeper than the ocean.
they want to break free,
now and without constraints.
My words are enough.
I am enough.
To find the grace in a word, see the screaming colors of a page, and feel the passionate vibrations evoked by the act of connecting head to heart, heart to hands, hands to paper, is to write with my whole self.
We've done such a thorough job in our culture of equating money with the worth of a person that when you tell someone openly about your modest financial status, they tend to do you the favor of being embarrassed for you, because clearly you forgot to be.
If they would have looked behind them as they walked away, they would have seen the way the sky began to vibrate, grow, belch out a treacherous gleam of hot light that sent searing into the eyes of every man and woman and child.
Look forward on what is to come. Bless it all -- not with saccharine gratitude, but the kind of raw and holy blessing that honors the blood and guts and gore and heat and sex and hard work and giving up and giving in and the howl of loss and burning down and rising again.
Up there I can be a part of something other than myself. I can look up and my gaze can be reflected anywhere, and if I don't think too much, I can find the reflection of that gaze and follow it to where I need to be.
Spiderwebs of self-doubt and grief and neuroses, of you're not good enough, thin enough, pretty enough, you're misshapen, you're going to die young, you haven't done enough, you are selfish and messy and too intense and you don't do enough and you're always poor and why can't you take care of yourself better and you're almost middle-aged and you're lazy and you lack talent and nobody truly loves you and you're truly unlovable, and... and... and...
Pause. Listen to the rising and falling hymnals within your chest. Realize how level your breathing has become. Remember the days when it was quick, short, paralyzed. Let go and ride the natural ebb and flow of your breathing, and understand how much that communicates about you, your body and your evolution.