Sometimes, when I’m tired, and this world is a little too much for me to take (which, to be honest, is quite often these days) I like to play amongst the flowers. I like to tread, barefoot, through the grasses, allowing the thorns to catch in the lining of my dress, implant themselves into the soles of my feet to remind me that I am still here, that I still feel, that I still drink of this liquid air and thirst for the sunshine on my skin.
Because my spirit needs replenishing.
My mind needs silence. It needs the winds brushing up against the tall grasses it needs the refracting light upon the glossy surface of a petal it needs the cool grinding movement of rolling soil beneath my feet.
My eyes are weary from illuminated screens and my skin is pale from halogenic lights and my spirit is waning like wax beneath the burning flame of candlelight. I’m dying out. My fire is flickering softly, ever so softly, as the world continues to blow upon its trembling glow.
Because some days, the unhappy outweighs everything else. Some days, there is more bad than good. The scales of my life have fallen out of equilibrium and I need to hit the reset button, and rediscover peace of mind.
Perhaps I have had too much coffee. Perhaps I have dwelled too long in the realm of social media. Perhaps my tongue has loosened itself beyond repair with toxic gossip and unkind words and unravels forth from the confines of my mouth, spewing out poisonous proclamations that do not spread the love that I am so fond of spreading. And so I have to remind myself. Remind myself that there are things far greater than I. Remind myself that there is still beauty out there, and it is never as far as I think it is. I need only remove myself. Just a bit. Step a few feet off the path tread the uneven soil and plant myself in something real and something nourishing.
Because hearts break when beauty remains undiscovered. Souls are crushed beneath the brutish weight of man made things. It isn’t that we lack the capacity, but merely that we lack the drive.
So, today, I breath in the air of something forgiving. Of something kind and honest and loving. Of something authentic. Beyond the capacities of what we may create I allow myself to become lost in fields of flowers. And hope that they will allow me to rediscover in myself that which I have set aside for another day. Because the time is now. It is always, and will always, fervently, unceasingly, be now.