Belated.

I often scribble things down and forget about them, but some thoughts are worth holding onto.

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19/8/16

I don’t know what distance I covered. I don’t know how much time I spent. All I know is that after a day of feeling overwhelmed (there were tears) I felt infinitely better after going outside to just quadrupedal alone under the moon and stars. I could achieve that, the more I pushed the more natural it felt, the stronger I felt. And now I feel like I could conquer anything.

I have a favourite feeling.

Image via lilacsunandsea

Image via lilacsunandsea

I have a favourite feeling. It’s wading through mountain streams with my shoes stuffed in my pocket. It’s climbing over boulders and squeezing between trees, sliding down muddy slopes, getting somewhere in a way that requires awareness of every step, every muscle in my body, dirt in my fingernails, and probably a scratch or bruise (or two) just to remind me that I’m not that different from the girl who used to dream of a tree house in the backyard. It’s Matty putting his arm around me wordlessly while we walk Nala through the park after dinner. It’s watching sunrises unexpectedly, quietly, because I woke up, or someone woke me up to watch it with them. It’s writing when the words seem to know who comes next all by themselves. It’s daytime catch-ups with the girls that I grew up with. It’s lunch dates with my mum. Dad sitting opposite me to talk about his day. My brother calling to ask for advice on one of his first days away from home. Nala climbing into my lap and trying to fit the same way she did when she was small.

My favourite feeling is sitting on the cool sand of a beach, feeling the sea breeze messying my hair and filling my head with endorphins. It’s candles that smell like somewhere else (lemongrass, coconut, oranges, vanilla), Early grey tea with milk and honey, a single square (or two) of dark chocolate, a moment to myself to write something that is not necessarily for anyone but me. It’s cold days indoors under a blanket, with a book I can get lost in. It’s a hot shower on a cold day. A cold shower on a hot day. It’s remembering that for all the small things on my mind, the list of things to do that never seems to be entirely crossed off, I have actually crossed off more things than I ever imagined would even be on that list.

That I am shaping the life I want to live, that I’m getting there.

And my favourite feeling is not being able to sleep at 3am, knowing tomorrow (today) is going to be a struggle. But also knowing it’s ok because an urge to write pulled me out of bed, and I wrote this, and it feels like everything good that has ever happened.

Stickman

You know those days when you feel so fragile you wonder if the wind might break you. When one thing after another seems to go wrong and even though you acknowledge that individually they are not worth falling apart over, together they become a cloud around you; a cloud that starts to solidify like concrete, tightening your chest and shortening your breath. It’s that feeling you get when your to-do list gets longer as the remainder of the day gets shorter. When you feel guilty because the dog hasn’t been walked and you have no idea what you’re cooking for dinner and your husband’s going to be home before you to find your unwashed dishes in the sink.

Those days when you feel like you’re failing at being the kind of person you want to be. When you would love nothing more than to jump into your car and drive to the nearest beach, to sit on the cold sand, barefoot, breathing, watching the waves lick the shoreline as the sky transitions through a dozen shades of purple and pink.

Days when the only words you seem to be able to articulate are, ‘I can’t.’

It’s been one of those days. They happen, and they pass, and the world keeps turning, and I’ll be ok. But I wanted to say goodnight with a conversation worth remembering; a conversation I’m so grateful found me before this day lost me.

This morning, as we were about the start a persuasive writing workshop, a Year 2 asked me, ‘Can you draw?’

‘No,’ I laughed. ‘I can write, but I can’t draw.’

Unfazed, he asked, ‘Can you draw a stickman?’

‘Well … yes. I can draw a stickman.’

He shrugged and smiled, because the answer was so simple: ‘Then you can draw.’

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