In a search of security, we’ve pressed ourselves to understand, know, and predict our circumstances. The more knowledge we thought we have, the more secure we esteemed ourselves to be. This quest of the ideal, the safe and the comfortable finds its roots in fear and it resulted somehow in pride. Pride isn’t inherently bad, but it can take up a lot of places, namely on our shoulders.
Pride is defined as “a feeling or deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one’s own achievements, the achievements of those with whom one is closely associated, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired.”
Deep pleasure in our achievements or other’s achievements. But what happens if these achievements aren’t a reality? Personally, what happens in my body is a heaviness in my chest area, a feeling of overwhelming heat. I feel exposed as if I was pretending to be perfect and the curtain rose on me.
It seems as if whether we accept our flaws or reject them, whether we reach balance on a certain day or completely miss its trail, all of the responsibility is on our shoulders.
But in reality, there is grace.
Grace is unconditional, freely given, and aims to free you from your burden.
Besides the grace we can offer ourselves, which is again another responsibility to think of, there is the Grace of God. Now, we will not study the grace of God because it’s not the purpose of this page. We will simply imagine the grace of someone superior, bigger, all-knowing (what we subconsciously want to be) looking down, actually coming to us as a human would and giving us His grace.
That’s it. That’s all.
At times, we vitally need to receive something we cannot reach ourselves. We need that loving hand and giving heart. Then our breathing can settle, as to say “at last, somebody else stepped in. I can relax”.
Breathe again. Breathe in grace.
Give me air, not a muffled pillow
Give me silence and a little bit of tune, Tell Him by Lauryn Hill, cut by the screams of crows in the sunset sky.
This could be peace. This could be love.
This could be my mourning song and the comfort of God.
Stillness in chaos, the peace before a righteous rage.
Tell him… it’ll be all right.
What appears far off is on the contrary near,
The clothes of honor and respect you seek has been on thee,
Strolling after what we want we miss what we need,
The desires of our hearts are weaken by our wounds and their fears,
And the fear came from the pride we took in ourselves, thinking we were endless like the air that flows from the Most High,
Thinking, wishing and putting on ourselves more than we could stomach,
All the while nature sits and looks but sees past us, too busy being.
We should do that too – BE.
Our lives doesn’t require a show, an act, a spectacle or catwalk.
If you can gaze at a motionless picture, with colors or one devoid of colors, with clear defined objects or abstract measures with no confusion, only awe and consideration, you can do that for yourself and to others – let BE.
That’s what this picture I took in my neighborhood a week ago inspires me. Simple as that. Poetry. Thoughts.
Though we may not be mourning personally,
Though we may not be sick and hurting
Though our pain seems to be less,
Reaching out blesses the well and the depressed.
Reaching out, a means to not wallow,
A ship that rescues us from drowning through a simple hello.
Reaching out may stir feelings of inadequacy, fear of rejection, the impression of obligation
It is but a trial, a bottle of water we share
If I can drink then you should have the chance to do so as well
Some call it solidarity
Others call it love
We can view it also as respect
The most are not asked, rather, the least,
Not just the least you could do but the least you could sit on,
Like the recurrent bickering, gossip, the assumptions and allusions, the suspicion that darkens disparate thoughts and follows our musings.
Reaching out, admitting that in fact, not everything comes from within;
Moving poetry, starking art, mental and spiritual illuminance lies dormant in her, in him
That is why we must contain our urge of isolating
That is why even scant hope should be shared as much as our distress
Because what goes around comes around and we can’t take another round of this mess.
Please help me live as opposed to surviving.
I decide to help you live as opposed to surviving
Reach out, let’s kindle the love within.
This is not just a poem. If you need me, I am here. Reach out.
PS: If you can, #stayhome
Photo by Giovanni Ribeiro on Unsplash
A page, blank and silent.
Like an end to it all.
A moment to reflect without thinking.
A reminder to be quiet.
My being requires me to be speechless, grateful, accepting, whole…
As much as it was scary and intimidating, I stripped off of my insecurities and lingered there, at the center, facing myself, looking into my own eyes – not to find but to keep all that I am. Every part of me. Every part of me deserves to be kept, not bullied, not mocked, not considered as waste.
Naked; reconciled with me again.
A stick at a time, beautiful birds build their nest
Early in the morning as the sun ends its rest
With determination to press on their stength, making their wings counter the air, daunt it then sail ahead, till moments later, back at it again.
Focused not on the burden of starting over. Looking forward to the joy of flying once more.
Eyes plastered to the wall, my arms to my side… the feeling of being lifeless envelopes me, keeping me still.
My mind has found no elements to confirm the claims of my “feelings”. I ponder over a person I love, a brother. I think about the pain in his limbs that I cannot recollect no matter how much I philosophy. No matter how great my imagination is. It sounds ironic to be emotionally feeling worse than him, but laughter is far from reaching my lips.
A tear got stuck in the corner of my eye. I am not sure what brought it to emerge from me. Is it the blues cast in my soul. Is it the fear of losing someone I love? I believe it was the nagging sensation that my faith was losing its breath.
I mentally reach out to my legs. Double check my senses to ensure I have no injuries, no aches in my body; I felt like the one who needed to be saved, who needed healing.
However important and valid my feelings are, they sometimes need to be ignored – the time for me to extend love. To extend love without being jealous. To pray, acknowledging my blessings. To quiet my fears as I see his strength teach me a lesson. To let every aspect of life shine and forget my dim light.
Oh! The things that could lift me up if I turned my eyes away…
My blank face and numbness could welcome every soul’s gleeful paint.
A dab of pink to my cheeks.
A dab of yellow to my eyes.
A dab of green to my hair.
A little bit of gray at my ears.
Funny combinations, different personalities
There could be contradictions but they do participate in harmony.
Bitterness isn’t a part of me. And I am not a part of it.
I am blessed.
I speak it, therefore it is, it becomes and it will be.
Sunday, March 1, 2020
She came back, back home. Same place, same apartment, with the window almost facing her passed the entrance door. She, however, wasn’t facing the window. She hadn’t noticed its presence as it became similar to a shadow throughout the season – casting a “form” of light but bringing no life.
She went about her business, fixed herself something to eat. She was home alone with the quietness she grew accustomed to.
After a week of noise purging, both inner and social, she did her best to “smell the flowers” and look at life as neither a quest or a test but a journey she could enjoy. The darkness lingered, anchored in a deeper place than surface interactions and frustrations could reveal. This darkness caused her to jolt and crack. Past bedtime, a couple of days back, she came to a halt. A halt that resembled numbness but progressively glowed a growing peace.
The week fell away and present-day came, on a couch, the gloom of an indecisive winter on the first day of March, humming low: “It is gray, it is rainy and there is no warmth inside, nowhere to hide. The room is welcoming, the covers are ready to take you for a ride.”
Forgetfulness and disinterest would cancel out the noise of the persistent silence that made her life appear null. Her only option (sleep) was lined up in her head the moment she had arrived, but that growing peace piqued her interest upward.
Walking towards the window as if it held a secret she had to know, Maryonn softly pushed away the curtains and liberated the light behind the shadow, giving it its rightful place – the light before, the shadow behind.
Who would’ve known clarity within could lead to the clarity around us we desperately need?
The prayers, the cries, the sobs, and the choked worship weren’t in vain. Every terrifying moment where no sound seemed to pierce, was building up the courage to believe that even on a rainy day, light still exists.
Yes, this is a true story (Lol).
You know the cliché phrase that says “let the light in”? Yeah, this entire day was a cliché (insert laughing emoji here), but outside of the light bulb going off in my spirit, about an hour after typing this prose piece thingy, this is what happened:
As obvious as drawing blinds can be, in your darkest moments it is not that evident but it becomes dire.
What are you willing to let go of to find that saving light?
Between freedom and giving up
Between freedom and giving up, which option is the one my soul longs for?
Confusing, it is confusing and I am confused
How can oppression look like discipline?
How can torture take the attire of a desk job?
How can freedom from those things only lead to guilt and laziness?
Why am I in a circle, trying to decipher the context of my life to better understand the verses between the lines I put out every time, out of habit, out of frustration, out of inactivity or self-pity?
I could establish a diagnosis, uncover my phases and dysfunctions but at the end of the day, my soul remains restless. Where is the adventure my heart leaps for? The adventure unmet that makes my heart pulsate with rage.
Where is the path to be walked? The fingerprints of my gift, the lasting effect I want to leave on this Earth?
Questions asked, they make me lighter as if I had dumped my bladder.
My brain is less cluttered, I still wonder between freedom and giving up.
If I fail to choose, would there be no future awaiting me?
There, a pappus of hope carried by the wind. I catch it reluctantly and pursue my walk of faith… between freedom and giving up.