I used to want to feel normal. That’s all I ever wanted. Now I see that my perspective and definition of feeling normal was really just to have a sense of belonging, a right to be here. No explanation needed for why I exist.
I’ve equated the feeling to how babies in their first years of life start to learn how to manipulate and exert their influence onto the outside world. How you can see them growing more and more aware of their own power and joy. To feel “normal” to me meant just that – such alignment with your physical reality and the freedom to know you are capable of bending it and being a part of it. A dance between you as an individual and the larger world around you. That you don’t need to hide or feel hindered.
And I kept seeing that everywhere in others, except in me. I wanted so much to be someone else in order to be free.
But by accessing all the blockages I’ve been knocked with and learning to heal and bring my own inner child through more, I’m beginning to sense the rightness of my being more. And sometimes that’s all you need to start with : just the sensation of having the right to be. Quiet gestation.
So I guess the world normal wasn’t the most adequate word at all. All I wanted was to be so exquisitely blissful in my own inner world and being able to touch the skin of the outer one. Magic within the ordinary.
to find yourself in an unreality
that keeps being woven by all
those surrounding you.
this is a declaration
of no longer having the quilt
be repeatedly pulled over your head.
since – it might be a shock to hear –
you are not delirious with the fever
have an infinite fervor
for the richness of life.
born with a dancer’s delicateness,
you thin ankles and birdlike feet
were always too ready
to just fly away.
as if you could not let the divinity
in you permeate your whole body,
to reach down to the soles
of your feet, to be stood in.
there will always be those who
are too afraid of the ones who
generate too much electricity.
but this is not something to keep
to yourself, and it is not something
that can be easily stolen out
from underneath you.
the safe haven you preciously maintain
to travel back and forth to and from
needs to be the wings, excavated,
that flees you not from yourself
or your experience,
but from this nest you’ve found yourself in.
after all, your true fear
is that you really just might be able to.
as if to blend in with your surroundings
makes it so that you could more easily live.
as if making gentle creaks on wooden floors
threatens the exposure of your neediness.
needs to be heard and to be present and to be held
up by something like the ground and the earth.
as if that is just too much to ask: to just be alive.
you need more than believing your un-weight
will naturally bring more rightness than wrong.
you deserve more than tiptoeing the lines
between self-starvation and absolute freedom.