In Response to A Quote by Charles Bukowski
Some days are uninspiring, they drag by without inspiration or direction. Some days we just lose touch with who we are. Sometimes our loss of self drags out, days turn into weeks, months...maybe even years. Then, one day, we drag ourselves into the bathroom, look in the mirror...and no longer recognize who we are. That's because we've lost touch with our selves. Our real selves. Our inner selves. Our magical, inspired selves.
It happens before you know it. One day you are living life, being you. Steadily the downhill travel begins, perhaps so subtly you barely recognize the change. It can begin with a bad day, a break up, or (like myself) a physical illness.
But sometimes, we catch a glimmer of light. And, please, when you see those glimmers, latch onto them...ride the waves of their bright beams! Allow them to pull you from the depths of whatever darkness you've stumbled into. Tonight, I sat in my chair, feeling sick, struggling to take a deep breath, and feeling sort of like a royal failure because I've accomplished absolutely nothing today (short of checking my email). I was feeling pretty rough about myself and my lack of finding whatever it is in this world that makes the blood in my veins quicken...when I typed 'inspiration' into a search bar and was met with a quote by Charles Bukowski: Do you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be?
That quote hit me hard. Partly because I did remember, and I missed that girl something terrible. And partly because I knew, from within the depths of my soul, that I was not honoring that inner child. I have lost touch with her sense of wonder, her worldly love, her self acceptance, her innate connection to nature... and her big, huge, dreaming heart. She was crying for release. She was begging me to allow her to tell me something. And so I paused, and I listened, and I lent my voice to her words...
"Do you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be?"
I was a child in long hair,
wild and unruly,
and my spirit danced better than my legs.
I ran circles in soft grass,
never worrying about dirty feet or
the fabric-maim of mud stains.
I touched the wild hairs of dandelion
and left them to the sunlight
while other children selfishly plucked
them from their only lives.
I dreamed in psychedelic colors,
of the fairy magic in butterfly wings.
The mountains were my home:
muggy pine-shadow in summer,
dry leaf-crush in fall,
the wet flower-sneeze of spring,
or the bare-feet ice crush
of concrete against new knees...
I loved it all.
On sunny summer days that lolled
me like a lazy baby,
I laid upon the grass,
bare skin and brittle bone,
my body made a highway
for lone beetles and ladybugs.
I was a fearless thing in blue eyes,
I never worried about pretty or ugly,
thin waists or the curve of a thigh.
And I was never scared of anything,
for every animal was soul-kin.
I'd knee-walk beyond snake-holes and
the quick lick of lizards,
on my four-leaf-clover missions.
Not in my wildest dream did I believe
there was anything but good
inside the heart of man.
I've tried to resurrect that girl,
waif in blonde hair and warm heart.
I've spent an adult lifetime
trying to make happiness out of habit.
Maybe I was naïve back then,
but at least I believed in magic.
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