It’s easy to slip into a former way of thinking and reacting.
Maybe it’s a sense of self-preservation and having to protect the ragged edges under reconstruction.
Some hours I feel centered, others not at all.
It’s not an easy thing to admit and it’s hard to find self-compassion. It is a steady practice though, of redefining self.
It sometimes feels like a balloon has been popped inside of a child-like papier–mâché creation, way before it was ready.
Today my scaffolding came unglued.
Construction went on strike. Meditation was loud. Music was jarring.
Sometimes my mind turns into a rapidly changing kaleidoscope; the mosaics are convoluted. I took a giant pink eraser and wiped away as much as I could to feel safe.
I don’t know any other way but to be anchored to the sea of my soul. Trusting on some slim invisible thread that the answers are there and maybe it’s okay to hibernate on a sunny day and write through the confusion.
Maybe by sharing this, I’ll give someone else a little hope — we are not alone.