A habit has appeared in my weekends: a casual saunter downtown, sunshine on skin, breeze through hair, weight of the week dispersing with each adventured moment.
While getting ready this morning, I was introduced to new gray strands decorating my muddy blonde mane. For years, I’ve been convinced that one day I will wake up to see that half my hair has turned sparkly overnight. Wishful thinking probably. The actual transformation will likely dance out as an extended witnessing of my steps into the sanctity of cronehood.
I stop at my favorite downtown cafe for a drink and a treat, offer a smiley hello to community members as we pass each other while I mosey over to the indie bookstore where I peruse each shelf carefully for instructions from the universe about what nurturance my soul needs next. Seems like it will come from either a wicked witch or an octopus. Fall has gifted an intense desire to bookworm; an escape from a heart palpating with misery.
Focus required to read is cultivated by repetitive twirling & pulling of my hair, specifically those tendrils around my ears; the internalized itch to always run a hamster wheel soothed by this form of stimming. I am always one breeze away from being swept up in the wind. My existence is plagued with a head of hair uncertain & unruly, and a nervous system always at least slightly on fire.
Sunshine reflects through the window of a bagel shop while I eat the best sandwich I’ve ever had. Each time, no matter which sandwich I get there, it’s the Best I've Ever Had. Through the window, I watch a couple walk together down the street, pulling a wagon of items, their entire lives shoved into this small bin on wheels. I wonder if she is content to be with him, or if she’s tolerating danger. The need for companionship is a complication in lives shaped by trauma responses & societal failings.
Soon I will be immersed in training to become a certified recovery coach. I’m nervous about how vulnerable the process will feel, my experience with addiction something I keep close to my heart, burning bright, like a hearth warming a cabin. Recovery is everything to me. Blessed be these next steps.
I drive home down a street that could be featured in a movie scene highlighting the beauty of autumn. The air and street is decorated with bright green, yellow, and orange deciduous leaves, the crisp colors settling the grief in my sinew. I hope the beauty of this season; the warm air, cool breeze, sunshine through trees slowly letting go, lasts longer than usual. I’m not ready for cutting cold & icy roads.
Avocado in my breakfast smoothies has proven to be beneficial for my brain healing from injury, a fact that stands alone held in reverent gratitude. God bless healthy fat both in my food and on my body. I have a yearning to stitch a feminine form, and keep attempting in a variety of mediums with no success. One day, eventually, the curves will feel right to me; a balance of erotic lines, honesty, & weighted power.
I will, of course, ensure that whatever goddess I stitch has a head of hair, unruly.
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