What You Want From Others (What Others Can’t Give You)
Our lives are a long song of asking. But sometimes that ask, even if aimed at others, can only be served by our own inner riches. A treasure trove we have to build, save and savour.
I had meaning to write this piece for a while, both as a reminder to self and for you 💛
A moment of sacred silence (within you)
You can switch off the cellphone, flick on the ‘Do not disturb’ feature, mute your notifications, ask everyone to quieten a little and even shut down all windows that face the main road. For any noise to not pass through the sieve of your attention, you will have to make a choice. A distinct decision to let your heart stir solitude that couldn’t care less if the pressure cooker whistled, if the mountains weren’t anywhere close, if your apartment lacks a balcony, if you meditated before or not. Taking off from work is a hopeful act in seeking pause, but you know (secretly) it doesn’t guarantee it.
Love that stitches your torn parts
Their tender palms will caress your scars; a blanket of warmth will wrap you, snugly. A listening ear of a friend will make you feel heard. Peeling, layer after layer of dusty lies your have memorised like an emergency phone number. But there is a first aid box for your soul, no one else can build. It’s your toolbox. Crafted with love. It contains life lessons, ghost stories for bonfires, silly jokes for sleepovers, heartbreaks for nostalgia and a few bandages of healing conversations.
Vulnerability isn’t a pamphlet screaming for help, it’s a lullaby you hum to self, when noises in your head overpower the melody of your day.
A map to your purpose
Impatient to make a difference, you ask, every smart person you bump into, in one way or another, “So, what should I do with my life?” They tell you what they do with theirs. Disappointed you label it under the ‘unsatisfactory’ folder. And ask again and again. Least realising, your calling though is wrapped in your own choices. Others, no matter how hard they try, can’t open your presents for you. They shouldn’t either. Keep them guessing. This meaning you are after, for your life, isn’t a formula to find and keep. It’s a crop to sow and reap.
Power to forgive the wrongdoings
Preachings from elders, the motivational quotes you save on Instagram and the 85253 self help books in the world, all together, can only nudge you to consider it. The final act of execution is all yours to practice. In the course of your efforts, you will find the buried power. You will have to dig, with your bare hands, the hardened floors of your heart. They will bleed because repentance is repair work. What was broken will confront you, but so will the progress you make from there.
The hallways of hope can be only reached by crossing the narrow pathways of hurt. Don’t be afraid of the dark. It veils the light.
The choreography of letting go and moving on
One may assume that when you let go, you move on by default. Not necessarily though. Some people let go and still hold on tightly to the hurtful memory of that last argument, the first dinner date, the sunrise you saw together and a zillion tiny fuzzy details. Letting go and moving on are two separate dances we need to prep for and perform, over and over again. Until some odd summer morning, we do, indeed lose the grip, erase the sounds of their voice and wipe off the bruises their sharp promises left on our soulscape. We begin again without any explanation or life-altering advice.
We start over. Because we can. We must. It's time.
The permission to be an artist
We shun the tag of an artist because—We haven’t painted, we cannot sing, are tone deaf, have two left feet, never took a picture—we believe that is not who we are. The fear of being called one robs us of the reality that we are one. And always have been. Being an artist is a way of life; adopted, embraced, scratched, scrambled, served and refined with erroneous handwork. It’s not the artefacts but the aura, not the colours but the creativity that matters. As long as you attempt to make your unknown known, understood in a world of clashing chaos and screeching clarity, you are good.
Run wild. Taste life. Be an artist.
The honest and full truth
Our lives are one long boot camp of asking for truth, and yet mostly receiving mere facts. People can tell you how long the journey was, where they live and under what obstacles, the number of refugees relocating, the impact of the divorce, the troubles of break up. They can spit out manicured details. Articulate exemplary nuances. But that is not truth. Not your truth, anyway.
You want truth? Then go help build it. Under the rubble and debris of facts and statistics and logics and justifications, truth awaits a hand that pulls it out. Helps it stay alive. One tender breath at a time.