I dwell. I wonder. I delight. I break. I bleed. I marvel. I heal. I grow. I let life live me. I (try to) make sense of it all. & then I write.
Welcome to Heart Talk, a series of personal stories from the most tender of spaces.
Find the first of its kind here:
I took a cold winter’s walk. I didn’t wear enough layers. I wanted the chill to sear into my bones and remind me that I am physically alive (although I feel anything but). I do this often when I can tell that there is a disconnect beneath the surface. It’s like shock therapy and it works like a charm. Everytime.
I’m trying to make sense of the year. One I’m ending in a delicate place, to which I don’t have exact words for. Normally I am unhinged by this because I always need to know (it wasn’t always this way, but more on that later, for now I’m still focusing on ensuring that I'm present and at the very least I’m tasting my bloobs), but for the first time, in a long time; this lack of clarity is okay by me. I can’t force myself to finalize the weight, lessons and pure magnitude of life just because a clock strikes midnight. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t knoOooOo00w anything. Needless to say, coming home after the last 365 days has left me with more to unpack than just physical suitcases.
I cannot divulge from within my own mind the narrative I wish to wrap this year up in, encase in a picturesque shadow box and tie neatly in a bow. I gift myself grace in this, but I also still feel the need for closure, because I am still me.
So I do what I know and I listen to Taylor Swift.
I listen to Taylor Swift because she beautifully encapsulates the brutality in her wintry sad-girl anthem song, evermore. I listen to it and the resonation that has been evading me falls into place. This song has played countless times on my shuffle, but suddenly in the middle of a desolate physical and mental winter, every line feels as though it was written exactly for me. I am understood and so now I can further understand.