Greetings from a cold East. A dull atmosphere holds the scapes of where I call home as it has been holding my ink captive. I have felt the need not to ask anything of my uneasiness but your constant check-ins have softly insisted on steadying the nerves for this.
...onions -grown from cuttings-, a flowering bean, succulents.
My absence here always means I am or have been spiritually trying to get back to myself. It is sort of a pause to allow my soul to tap back into the rhythm of being aware.
Disappearing to go heal is my traumatic response. My subconscious is conditioned to feel repulsive about penning my difficult experiences. Or that of embracing the idea of journaling the emotions that trigger or unlock something worth getting to know my shadow a little better.
Shame is to blame.
It is the reason that I have been sitting on my unfiltered prose. My dark poetry. Growing in the most sacred and complex of ways. Ways I never foresaw my evolution absorbing seamlessly.
I have drowned in my worst fears and somehow managed to keep breathing. I have rediscovered my love for organic and mornings and how to remain grateful while outer forces are looking to keep my soul miserable.
But I have not found ways to scribble about these experiences. They leak bittersweet moments. Like they are carved on sunny and rainy days.
On one extreme, the mother in me is paranoid. Her idea of time is running out and nothing is yet to make sense. She is running on low energy and loaned resources. Hers is to live an hour at a time as her awakened spirit struggles to rinse a layer of seasoned rage towards the current regime.
Everything is expensive. What was affordable is now luxury and the acidity of the bile that comes with ranting about it on a daily doesn't help much. Her desire to remain anchored in gratitude has also been another reason to kill the scribe within.
There's no way to paint hardship other than what it is, rough. And the vulnerability of journaling demands the truth every time I write.
On the other extreme, my higher self is taken by my growth in all areas. She's admiring the woman who is accepting herself more. The mother is busy questioning herself. The healing inner child who wants to explore art in the most relatable forms of it there is.
She's putting in the work that will ensure I never find myself where I am. Emotionally, spiritually, psychically, mentally, and monetary.
I love how focused she is. How hopeful she is for the near future. The whole DIYs and gardening. The cooking and the painting. The ultimate rewards for staying consistent in some crypto spaces. The fulfillment of affording my basic needs stably.
...oh the joy of seeing in the dark and flying with broken wings.
Asks from the abundant universe; planting trays, seeds, herbs, resin, paints, power tools, dry food, lye, essence oils, candle wax, molds, glass, paper, and patience.
wambuku w.