Our bodies split
By the vastness of the world
While our souls
Our bodies split
By the vastness of the world
While our souls
She waits for it
Like a child in a deep sleep
Aware that morning will come
Tucked quietly in the darkness
Certain of the sun
I am hurt
But I feel rooted
My spirit doesn’t float on a flimsy string
It is a thick tree
Inside my ribs
Spreading tall to my eyes
But its limbs are shaking in my stomach
Wind whipping in my head
Fallen leaves all around
I wait for them to rot
And turn themselves into soil
That breeds something else
It is better to have a storm
Than an apocalypse
To burst away
Before I crawled too tightly into the cookie cutter
I am strong
I am shaken
I am allowed to be both
It hurts to walk away from you, but my intuition told me that I should.
I have noticed that self-care and self-love have become an issue of neglect for us humans. I want to share all the little things that I do to nourish myself and what I experience when I lose track of things. If you have low-energy, feel lost, or stressed, it could be because you are not taking care of some aspect of yourself.
Below is what I do to take care of myself.
When my room is cluttered, it means that my mind is cluttered or it is about to be. It is important to keep my space organized and tidy at all times. This means putting away my clothes as soon as I try on another outfit (life of a girl), making sure everything is folded and in its correct spot, setting my bed every morning, taking out the trash, doing dishes immediately, and getting rid of things as soon as I realize that I do not need them (recycle, give-away).
I loved living out of my backpack while traveling because I had less items to keep track of.
I also love to light incense, sage, and use essential oils to keep the atmosphere clear and smelling good. I open the windows and prefer to have natural light.
I love to exercise my mind by researching different topics that I am interested in (health, astrology, yoga). I read poetry. I also love reading up on psychological and sociological studies on the internet. I try to give my brain information so that it does not stagnate. Learning new languages and trying new skills helps this, but it is not a daily task for me.
I also turn to meditation if I am having trouble overthinking and worrying. If this does not solve the situation, I write. I go to my journal and begin a stream of consciousness to get down to the root of my issue. I find that there are lots of things I need to get out that I did not realize were hiding inside me. If I have not written in a while or taken the time to sort out my thoughts, I will feel it as clutter in my head, rumination, confusion, and feeling lost.Read More
After traveling for the past 3 years (mostly in Asia), I have returned to the place where I was born and grown: Connecticut, USA. I would have continued what I was doing: volunteering, teaching yoga, and exploring foreign places, but my bank account directed me back. Also, I missed my family (friends included) and the familiarity.
I thought that I would be overwhelmed by people trying to meet up and hear all about my adventures. That people were eagerly waiting for my return. But it wasn’t exactly like that. Just my mom crying at the airport. And seeing some friends and relatives here and there.
My 20-year-old brother is more interested in his new kitten than catching up with his long lost sister. And it feels like I have to twist arms to get people to make time for me. Unanswered calls. Delayed responses. Scheduling. It is not as easy to flow here.
And that’s what it feels like. Everything that I had experienced has been lost in the winds of time and I am stuck here, in cement, as I wait for the clock to tick forward. It is gray and quiet here. Like there are underground, rushing waterfalls repressed by designer clothes and cars and overpriced, rented apartments.
Americans pay a lot for everything. And what they don’t realize is that they are living in luxury. Air conditioning, potable water from the tap, washing machines, no sounds of geckos mating at night. But it comes with a price…Read More
As I wrote his name, the pen shook. Like the words knew they weren’t true before they were splotched onto the paper. I was so good at writing how I felt. Writing about pain. But when I tried to write something nice about our future, the pen laughed.
I knew the truth, I just wasn’t ready to believe it.
Things have gone wrong. But maybe they were meant to. Maybe the hard way is the only way I know how to learn. Sometimes it takes getting stripped and beaten to make me choose to put the right things on. I might have to repaint the walls over and over. My taste for the right color changes. Nothing is set in stone either. Its all maleable.
Especially my brain. I can rewire my mind if I want to. Reset all the patterns that aren’t protecting me anymore. The mean voice that tells me not to forgive myself is wrong. The relentless matter of whether or not I can trust myself. The mistakes I made. The toxic energies I was drawn to. The depressive emotions and explosive waterfalls of anger. They’re not meant to have a home inside me.
What am I leaning on to hide from my truth? A cigarette on the balcony? A coffee at 3pm? Kissing the stranger from London? I won’t let my sensations melt into mud. I need to feel it so I can release it like a dandelion seed.
The ghosts in draping cloths are screaming inside my ribcage. Fear is tapping at my bones. Fear is under my tongue. Fear is in my pillow case talking to me in my dreams. I’ll say hi for you. I never knew how to call it by its name. Anxiety or nerves. Running. Butterflies in my belly.
All the things that I fear are things that have already happened. I was so afraid of getting left, I did everything I could to hold my power. I didnt want to hurt anyone, but I was okay with hurting myself. So I lived and relived and loved all those that pushed me into the soil.
I’m good at suffering. Of playing the tortured artist. Depressed under the sheets. Sunshine coming in through the window while I prayed for rain. No energy to even take a shower or eat. Let me die here. But I ended up getting kicked out. Like a seed breaking through the dirt. I wrote and stabbed my guts out until they were squeezed dry with poems. I cried under my desk at work. I even escaped to an island.
But it was time that helped me. It was allowing the dandelion seeds to fly into the wind. Each day I got farther and farther from where the boat took off. I’m relieved to be here today. Free. Detached. Unlocked. Feeling equanimity for the people and events of the past. It is not pain anymore. It’s a lesson.
Falling in love again makes me wonder what I even felt before. I know that I was there, but I feel as if my soul had walked off. I look back and it’s just smoke. I lost track of my heart. And just as it found its way back to me, appeared a gift. Arriving much faster than I was ready for. Wide enough to block the road. Unavoidable and sparkling. My chest is overflowing like a pool with the hose running all day. Water-filled spaces that were once empty cracks. My body has been wiped clean. A fresh pulse. A step forward on my path. I’ve been opened up like a book. And not a sentence skipped.
There is something special about cutting open a passion fruit with a sharp knife. A sour and crunchy slurp that nourishes the cells behind my forehead. Sometimes when I’m thirsty I choose fruit instead of water. Maybe I am addicted to the sweetness just as much as the power behind the burn. A small crack on my dry lips lets in a sting. But I allow it because everything heals eventually. And I won’t stop loving these fruits even when I know there is an opportunity to feel a little pain.