Be Here Now

The act of writing was a preservation of a sensation
Living in the moment was rare
I wanted to stretch it out
like a housecat in the morning sun
splayed out and drowsy

For a mind that lingers in
quicksand of past mistakes and
the inherent toxicity of future "what-ifs";
being possessed by a single moment is
a relief

a deep breath between high paced heart beats

Writing was a coping mechanism for a young girl who wanted love
who wanted to be noticed without being seen
I was a human kaledioscope refracting too many experiences;
my day planner was too full and my emotions were too big
and I was too scared
of sitting in silence
to be gripped by the consistent refrain of "Am I Good Enough?":

Writing was a meditation
when i had too much energy to be able to stand yoga
I don't know how many downward dogs I did
while feeling the need to bolt and run from the studio

I was told that I was too much
too aggressive
too bold
and I believed it
because I felt Too Much
I grieved too deeply
loved too quickly
judged too harshly

I have worried too deeply about my lack of writing
without pausing to recognize
that the missing prose, the missing rhythm
was a symptom
of healing

There are more moments where I Am.
and that is all there is
There are fewer question of who I Was or Will Be or questions of Being Enough
There is a quietness, here
And there is so much love, here, within and without
There are more moments where I Am
that I no longer feel the need to preserve
because that interferes with my ideal to-do list of just
Being.