I feel more naive than I did when I began writing here in 2009. Perhaps it’s my brand of hyper-critical self judgement, but lately I’ve been going through a period where some of my writing here, and especially my poetry, is tough for me to read. Though I remind myself that certain things will just feel obtuse, tender, and rough when revisited, whether a day or years later.
When I’m not overthinking and ruminating on the past and the people I’ll never please, I’m doing my best to be the in the present, to enjoy the ride. The practice of being mindfully aware of my Thoughts, Feelings, and Breathing – particularly as they interrelate – has given me a greater capability to consciously respond, rather than unconsciously react, to my life. While it may sound complex, nothing is more intuitive than slow, deep diaphragmatic breath, self-talk, and placing my open hand firmly on my solar plexus, when I need to center. Gradually, I’m learning to be gentle with myself, to go and let go of everything lightly, holding fast to what I have rather than what I have lost, which is trite in comparison.
Looking ahead, my focus is on my books, my love for animals and the planet, and caring for this very sensitive hooman more wholly – for all my non-neurotypicality and quirks and moods. Society, for its part, affirms my preference for solitude and my need of my own time, attention and self-care.
At-last, I am not abandoning myself. Not to love, not to hope, not to despair.
I am learning to be here, to be mine, not who they think I am, but me.
Mother Mary, I just might learn to be happy again: to be free here and now. That’s the idea – or at least, one of the big ones for me.
-YSLMOMMA, January 2020