I’ve been thinking about the size and shape of me
The way I take up space and move in the world.
And it has just occurred to me…
I can chose to be whatever size I want.
What do I want?
And what am I willing to do?
I keep having to ask myself these questions.
I think I know the answer,
I’m so sure
And ready to go.
And then I lose the way again.
Is there really any magic to be found
in fighting forward through the fog,
striving towards a cloudy vision
of what could be?
Or does the magic only come
if I sit silently
for it to tap me on the shoulder
and whisper my name?
Maybe that’s what this life is:
A pattern of
Waiting and listening.
Listening and waiting.
Finding and loosing and finding and…