My Spirit,
Pulsing through my veins with all the force of the universe.
It’s what brings me life, gives me my self. Lately it seems like we are
strangers, though. Like an uncertainty has taken form where once was my being.
Can an uncertainty be a tangible thing, an actual thing, a real something? I
would never have believed it if I didn’t actually feel is so strongly. It’s
bland but unavoidable. Powerful. Instead of rich, warm blood running miles
through my body, I’ve got this stagnant murky slush. Some days I can’t move,
and not just my body – but my mouth, and my brain. Some days it takes more
effort than I think I can conjure. But I don’t care. At least it stops.
Sometimes, on the dark days, the vein slush even keeps my tears from forming.
But I live.
When I can’t keep my thoughts from damming up with my
heartaches and anxieties, I remember when things were different, when my Spirit
was different:
light
and free
and bold
and aggressive.
I could do anything, literally anything. I can say “yes”,
then say “no”, and both are true and right. Because I could do anything – everything and nothing – just because. I am at
liberty, and, really, aren’t we all? And I felt it. Like the freshest breeze at
the beginning of Spring, after the snow melts and the daylight is finally
longer and the world is bright and things are new. That was inside of me. The
Cosmic powers that keep Life circling from infinity down to the dirt pulsed
through Me, and I was alive, and I didn’t doubt it. Not once. And I think of
where I went on a whim, who I loved completely, how I laughed unceasingly, when
I thought about everything because it was in my grasp and so available.
Something happened. Something blocked me. Something inside
shut off and stopped going for it or believing or really hoping that things are
more than what they seem. The air is gray and heavy.
Today I sat with a woman while she was diagnosed with breast
cancer.
Life is gross, sometimes. People are cruel and humanity is
cold.
But, regardless, my Spirit still flies. It’s sometimes so
out of control it seems to live a life separate from me. At the end of the day,
or the end of my slushy, icy spell, the fact remains – my Spirit is mine.
My Spirit is sweet, and soft, and alive, and brilliant, and
strong, and resilient, and clever, and hopeful.
My Spirit is Me, and I keep on living.
