Dripping compassion

Like dew clinging to an opening lily I'll love freely. Like cedar my children and I will send down roots, staying grounded, we will grow down into the earth. Though I may dwell in shade at times, my splendor will flourish as my fruitfulness depends not upon my own understanding, but the twisting vine of those who understand them.

A tiny dust note floats innocently into my view, reminding me I’m behind on housework. The way it reflects the sun, as if winking and agreeing with my internal struggles. If you came to visit me for a coffee now, you’d never have guessed I used to be a clean freak. That 5 years ago I had counselling for severe OCD. The counselling wasn’t just OCD it was ptsd from past abuse, and because my health had failed me, I couldn’t clean any more. I just sat day in and day out reliving things.

That is until I wrote it down. Then I sat day in and day out reliving them and writing them down. Being an active relaxer inside the body of someone with severe fibromyalgia is a head trip, but I’ll never forget the lessons it has taught. The main one is the importance of self-care. Self-care for any one is important, but often writers hear, “must be great to pick you own hours.” They don’t see the hours awake thinking up plots, the days spend staring at the wall trying to remember what you HAD thought the night before. The missions we take on. The food, the coffee and self-doubt running though our veins.

I will try to find balance, but sometimes I won’t be able to and that’s okay, because every single minute of it is worth it. While I might not be able to create a perfect world, I can create something pretty close amongst the pages and may the same compassion drip from my lips as from with my words, because writing is my superpower.

And I'm not going to use my own power to tear myself apart.