Love has trickled it's way back to my feet and it's offering cushioned spaces and kind nudges towards 'freedom'. For the last few days, a string of small meaningful deeds have chased grief back to the shadows for a while and my brokenness has a curved stretch on it.
I am standing in a filling pond and my scorched bare feet are relearning the feel of soothing cooling touch of calm ripples. My overwhelmed soul is enjoying a break from dragging phantomish weight across this unproductive season of these expectations lined up for my unfunctional being.
Whispers bringing hope from a seemingly fertile future are here with a promise to enable me to free myself from heading into my forties while still working my old bones like a donkey. I hope sleep will have forgiven my overthinking mind and returned home.
Oh. And I may have found a few remedies in consuming more wholesome foods than the junk dark days have me indulging in. I was also introduced to something organic that I have never heard of before made out of seamoss, turmeric, oranges, and some honey that is supposedly beneficial for my lungs, guts, thyroid and gateway to my womb.
I want to give it a try. But it comes in form of a gel that I am supposed to do with smoothies. And for me it is a task as I have never developed a taste for liquidated raw spinach. Or what makes smoothies?
I am enjoying a recent tip by one of my favourite artists here and his gift reminded how hive also has potential to help me to raise my farming capital or even feed my grown brood or aid in paying my now ridiculous rent thanks to the brood again.
Life would be all about creating and polishing what I have mastered how to birth and bring to light without advancing the emotional destruction that has forcibly camped here. I'd drop a few draining hustles and open the shackled spiritual doors for writing and farming to heal me.
For ink and the feel of my ancestorial nurturing soil to guide me.
For life bringing winds to sweep across my dying fields and leave the nourishment my roots seek to spread far and wide like the wild fire I fight every day to contain. For them to finally find my drowning streams that kept them alive throughout my lifetime's mostly unkind seasons.
But a wave of gloomy feels then hold me hostage for days at the bottom of these raging seas and my hands tremble at the sight of a keyboard as my creative powers prefer to squeeze themselves in the recently resurrected self doubts and the rest becomes history.
Shame then unceremoniously reminds me that pasting the draining experiences of my time wandering aimlessly about the floor of the escarpments of my unrelenting pain is selfish. If only there was an external soul that could witness the mayhem within me comes before I am able to publish a dark reflective piece. Sigh.
I have questions and I am still fighting not to break down randomly anymore but softness is finding it's way towards my stiff face. Light is sneaking it's way here as sunrays peak through my bright curtains to tow my spirit back from unforgiving long nights.
I have always wished to free myself and spend more time here but I have responsibilities the mother hen in me can't afford to lose focus of and grief is unwilling to comprehend that I am the sole provider here.
And even while I enjoy the grace that light is flooding my blind feet, I am still acknowledging the dark cloud hovering here, waiting for my adjusting eyes to blink one too many times.
wambuku w.