Untitled: A Poem About Wellness in 2020

Untitled

A Poem About Wellness in 2020

I’m glad it’s not just me—

the only one who feels this heaviness—

this compacted grief,

this sense of hopelessness 

balancing on the pinpoint of light.

“This year is unlike any I’ve ever been through...” my dad said to me.

It isn’t just me.

It’s not just you.

We all feel heavy.

We all feel despair.

Sadness.

Anxieties surrounding all the unknowns.

Anger.

Frustration.

Restless nights.

Tearful nights.

Crying because...so many reasons.

Sometimes we feel the heartache that often exists for being part of a country that seems to have so many things mixed up

and then the other heartache that comes about feeling so powerless to do anything about it.

We are all going through it.

And in that,

I oddly and unmistakably find a small patch of comfort, peace.

A blanket of hope to keep out the doubt.

We 

are 

ALL 

going 

through 

it.

Though all our “it”s may all look different.

So, let’s lean in (while keeping our space and washing our hands),

lean on each other (while wearing our masks),

and lean into our vulnerability.

Things will not get easier if we keep them bottled up.

The glass will eventually shatter.

Let’s fill our bottles with goodness once we uncap the dark,

and pour from the tap of the small things that can bring us joy.

My joy looks like the time I need alone to unravel when I have to 

and the time spent with loved ones—each minute a holy and sacred gift.

Or the way my favorite part of my favorite song sounds in the heart of my ears 

or the way goosebumps say hello to my arms when I read that line of my favorite book.

Joy is the way the golden moon gets a new custom frame made with every set of tree branches

I look through.

Joy is way mango tastes on the tip of my tongue,

and the way my dog yawns and does that high-pitched scream thing that reminds me, once

again, how lucky we are to have such glorious and silly creatures to befriend.

It is hearing children laugh with their friends while out riding bikes.

It is every butterfly I see.

It is waking up early enough to witness the dew kissing the grass, diamonds in the rising sun.

When I can let some of my sadness spill out of me,

not shoving it away,

but letting it flow,

as it needs to,

there is room for the appreciation of more tiny miracles.

Like hummingbirds and their existence 

and that tiny high you feel after they buzz near your head

and how bright the stars are in the middle of nowhere--better than fireworks--

and

each beat of our collective hearts

and the way spring always comes after the emptiest of winters

and the way honeysuckle and trumpet vines and huckleberries remind me of childhood,

and childhood reminds me of everything I did to offer myself and my imagination to the world

and in all the ways I tried to heal myself from the bad days--

So I’ve been gifting myself

more sunshine, more paint, 

a few more messes, 

more experiments in the kitchen, 

more playing in the water, 

more singing even if it’s not great, 

more bright laughter,

more laughing just because it feels really nice to laugh, 

more being silly, 

more care for the things that matter most to me

instead of caring about the things 

that everyone tells me I am supposed to care about.

Let me be enraptured by the fireflies.

Let me paint outside the lines.

Let me fall in love with the way the tall grasses wave at me in the wind.

Let me make the messes 

because perfection has never once existed.

(Joy is bountiful when we look.)

This year, a year unlike any other,

in a time spent in much isolation and aloneness,

rest in knowing you are not alone.

You have never been alone.

You will never be alone.

The universe will give of itself to you when you have hope that there is goodness still.

Though it can be difficult to tell,

trust that there will be light soon.

Trust that you can always make some of that light for yourself

if you want to.

Search for it and harness it and keep it for warmth. 

Share it with loved ones and strangers too.

And let the chaos of the year write itself away 

as you hone in on all the tiny prayers being answered every day.

This year has been one for all the books.

And I trust they will write them all.

That doesn’t mean you have to stop writing for yourself 

in the pursuit of your courageous and wild truth.