Life can drag me down. Face to my feet, I notice the rocky terrain. When my neck and heart need relief, I look up. There is sky and sunlight. There are clouds and birds, trees and blooms.
Life is tough. I seek joy, so I practice gratitude.
Chronic pain has a way of wearing people down. As I spend time with my heating pad and pain pills, it is hard to not let shame envelope me. I want to feel kindly toward my body, and stop resenting it.
Self-care means going through the motions, no matter the feelings. To view love as a verb, rather than just an emotion, brings healing within reach.
I can take care of a body I feel limited by. I can use my heating pad, rest, and use medications.
I can make doctor and therapy appointments, and I can ask for help.
I can give myself a hug, and admit this is really hard. I can breathe and cry.
I can talk to myself the way I do to those I love.
Self-compassion is a practice, and there is no better time to try it out than when stuck on a couch when I’d rather be on a trail. So practice, I will.
To hold on
Not sure where
The strength comes from
A humble collaboration
Of reaching out
And seeking within
Curtsy from the load
Every manner of pain
Born by every bone
Encased in skin
Clasp pearls and heart
There are times
Of healing and moving
Promised and near
There are times
Until nails unbed
And knees hit dirt
These are the times
We bear what we
Now, we cope
It’d be great if the best things just got better, and the hardest things got easier, and life moved in a clean, linear fashion.
That’s a daydream, so I’m learning to let go, and accept that I can’t control much of anything at all.
What I can do is dive into moments that fill my heart to bursting, allow joy to flow, and gasp from the awareness of being fully human.
A full human.
A menu of emotions.
The utmost potential.
I am grateful for this one, utterly full life.
Garlic and onion, potatoes and bacon, the scents swirl through the house to reach me in the den, where I write.
I’m on my second cup of coffee, sweetened and creamed. Cinnamon floats atop foam.
Though we’ve payed bills and made plans, we’ve not showered or given a damn.
How sweet it is, to share space and love, with an agenda slow as molasses.
On Saturdays, we linger.