harmonicas and stew.

I woke up before the sun this morning with a pounding in my chest. It wasn’t from anxiety or fear, but something softer. Words whirled around my head and in and out of my ears like dancing pixies and I listened. They wanted me to write.

Oh, if I could explain the heartache I’ve felt surrounding writing this last year, I think that pounding in my heart would cease. I think I would take the fullest breath I’ve taken. I think I would be free.

Somewhere amidst the chaos that the last few years have served, I lost my voice. I wandered from my home and I bought into shadows along the way. They were there to teach to me, but I overstayed my welcome. I threw on a dark overcoat and played harmonica with them and ate stew and settled into the vague self-doubt and fear that emanates there.

And now here I am again. The light is starting to meet me and my shadow self is telling me to greet it, but I’m too comfortable with self-doubt to move. The reality is, I’m the most uncomfortable I’ve been in ages but in a strange way, that’s cozy now. Like an itchy wool sweater you can never take off.

There’s nothing creative or poetic about feeling like you’re “too much”. I know that at this point because that phrase has been ringing in my ears for the last year making me tone deaf. Too emotional, too heavy, too deep. THAT must be why I feel lonely. THAT must be why my relationships are evolving. THAT must be why I feel like I’m in limbo. THAT must be why everything feels foreign.

But of course “THAT” is just a space holder for “why?” and when I can’t seem to find the answer, when I can’t seem to find the branch that stuck out into the path indicating I was almost home, being “too much” takes its place. And it’s dark again.

This, I’ve come to find, is what transition looks like for me. That limbo, that greyness, is evolution. I’m moulting, watching my feathers float away and accepting the bare skin that takes its place.

In the past, I’ve spit out the stew and run into the forest trying to find my way back. I compared my leg to my arm and didn’t understand why they didn’t speak the same language. I threw off my cloak and cursed the moon for being so honest. But, the night softened and I found a mossy knoll where I bent down and slept. And in morning time, I realized that right now, this is my home. I am my home. And oh, what magic there is in a love like that.

It’s a celebration. A privilege.

Some never make it to transition. Some never know uncomfortability and the freedom it leads to.

I’m a lucky one. I know so because I feel it.

And also the wolves told me.

I’m going away again with a peaceful smile on my face and I’m also coming home.

I know I won’t return the way I am now, but I know a fuller self will.

And that branch that sticks out into the path to indicate I’m close to home won’t be there.

But something else will.

And for me, that’s enough.