Dangerous Compassions

ok to feel: life happens

Lately I’ve felt overly vulnerable, over exposed, like I overshared.  Under valued too, underconsidered, misunderstood.  Like a snail that needs to pull back into its shell.

Then a penpal sent me this beautiful bracelet, different waxy green threads braided together.  She reminded me that love is possible, and someone doesn’t have to know me for a long time or spend a ton of hours with me to appreciate who I am and what I do.  She mostly likes my zines.

Another penpal did that last year on my birthday, sending lavender soap and lotiony stuff, a candle they made, some grape jam they made.  They write me the most exquisite letters about their feelings, and their partner and kid, and I did a ritual partly about friendship, and burned that candle, grateful. 

I really, really needed that.  Their handwriting is a healing balm.  A letter like a spell that heals me.  Just their handwriting, a few words in colored pencil on the back of an envelope, nourishing my soul. 

This is real–this person loves me, for no underlying gain, just to love and connect.  The world has people like this.  I can meet them, love them, lose them.  The world is ok.  I can live here.

I feel like giving up–then someone does an amazing thing for me.  And Ming does it every day.  Making sure I have my basics, taking me out, buying groceries, listening to me, saying hi when he gets up to pee, visiting me at my desk, letting me lift his shirt and kiss his tummy and tell him how pretty he is.

It’s ok to be sad, ok to feel, ok to need.  It’s ok to be who I am.  And I have this comfortable dress, and delicious popcorn.  I’ll be ok.

I had snap pea seeds, soaked a few in water for half a day, planted them in a big pot.  Then the other day, I saw some green leaves had pushed through.  Two little plants.  And the next day, two more.  Wow, thanks for growing, little peas.  We water them, and the sun and warmth do their thing.  It’s life, happening.  Life happens.

I repotted that big aloe that was bursting its pot, talking to it.  “You’re ok, plantie.  I know this is freaking you out, but in a week or two, you’re going to be so happy, in this bigger pot.”  It was rootbound. 

Comforting the plant.  Comforting myself that I would be ok, even though I’m uncomfortable now.  I do things that are hard now but will help me into the future.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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