Most of the time, I forget who I really am.

Most of the time, I don’t know nearly as much as I pretend to.

Mostly, life is beautiful, but confusing and wildly strange, and I just walk around this earth really quickly, thinking that maybe if I move fast enough, no one will see that I have no f*cking clue what I’m doing.

I hide my awkwardness and uncertainty with a loud laugh. I conceal the hummingbird heartbeats of my writhing insecurity with a sweet smile—but fear beads like a necklace of tears behind my blue eyes.

Well, the jig’s up. That old, falsified song and dance of pretty pretending will no longer sustain me.

I’d like to be bolder. I’d like to be more honest and daringly transparent. I’d like to try something new…

I’d like to live—to really live. I’d like to be me. The real me. One-hundred percent. Not holding back anything at all.

Most of all, I’d like to remember that I’m alive.

What does it even mean to be alive?  

Because most of the time, I don’t even remember who I really am. I forget that I’m alive. I forget that there’s blood pumping like ruby breath through my veins, that there’s oxygen flowing into my muscles, that spirit animates my body with stardust and poetry.

I become busyness. I become fear. I become anxiety. I become the frantic pace that the world seems to ask of me.

And my true identity, my soul, disperses to the wind like seeds—

Blowing, blowing

Gone, gone

Gone

Away.

I become a wisp with a thousand automated commands. A voice without passion or truth. A love that knows not how to hold or kiss. An embrace that’s cold and metallic, like the arctic depths of Winter.

I become distraction—it is all I hold and behold. I do, without thinking, without feeling. I do what seems to be expected of me. I race around and do more, desperate to achieve as much as possible, because that’s what everyone else is doing. Because maybe all the frenzied doing will somehow fill up this gaping chasm of terrifying, growing emptiness inside. Emptiness labeled by society as “bad.” Emptiness that—gasp!—might actually inspire me if I stopped and paused and got off the busy conveyor belt of the day and remembered myself.

Because in truth, this emptiness is inspiring. It’s golden. It isn’t actually emptiness at all—it’s spaciousness. It’s silence. It’s a football field of quiet possibility. It’s the wide-open garden where creativity can blossom. It’s the expansive blanketed blue sky where dreams come true.

We need not fear this emptiness inside us, for this emptiness is life. It’s art. It’s truth. It’s all the truth contained in a pause, a simple moment of remembering that we have hearts. That they beat.

So put your hand over your heart. Feel it drumming against your rib cage. Listen. Breathe. Stop. Stop running and trying and doing and forcing and pushing, just for one second.

What does it feel like?

What does it feel like to remember that you’re alive?

Because we are so startlingly, decadently f*cking alive.

Every one of our cells is vibrating madly with life in this exact moment, tingling with emotion, blossoming with bouquets of dripping wet truth, leaping with raw energy like Summer crickets. Our each and every pore is pulsating with sensory impressions, pounding proudly in time to the molten heartbeat of the entire universe.

We are so startlingly alive.

It’s breathtaking—is it not?

We aren’t programmed robots. We aren’t to-do lists with legs. We aren’t careers or husbands or wives or any of the roles we’ve become so good at playing. We aren’t the hollow thud of the American dream.

We are oozing hearts and swirled chaos and stardust-dipped spirits. We are human beings—struggling and learning and failing and feeling and constantly growing and and changing—shedding our old skin like snakes.

We are not static, framed portraits. We are dynamic movement itself.

And we are so startlingly, decadently alive.

And I remember that, in moments like this

When I stop.

And breathe.

And let all my fragmented bits and pieces catch up with each other.

And taste this breeze as it blows me—not apart—but back together.

In a new way

A different way

A way that speaks

To my soul

The way

That is

Natural.

The way that is nature.

Of how I am meant to be,

Of how we are all meant to be:

Whole.

Free.

Alive—

And so painfully, beautifully aware of our aliveness.

This is what I wish to remember.

Not memorized fancy bullsh*t facts to impress others. Not laundry lists of acheievments and accolades. Not all the sweet things I “should” do or be or say.

That’s sparkly and nice, but devoid of nutrients or meaning.

I want substance. I want truth. I want the molten-hot breath of what’s gritty, raw and real.

I want, I wish, I will remember every day

That I am alive—

That I don’t just function, I feel.

That I don’t just get by, I live.

That I don’t just occasionally gasp for air, I breathe.

That I don’t just do, I am.

That I don’t just pass by in a blurry hurried rush, I taste. I pause. I experience. I see. I discover. I sense. I savor. I explore.

That I don’t always know—and that I can be simultaneously crushed and uplifted by the grand, frothy uncertainty of it all.

Because I am more magical and mysterious than my all-omnipotent to-do list. I am more than the passing sand of hours, the dependable tick-tick of the clock. I am more than the grand sum all the sh*t I do. The sh*t I say. The sh*t that apparently defines me, like my job and money and house and body.

We all are so much more…

We are seeking souls touched down here on earth for a fleeting instance of years, stumbling and bumbling, as we slowly unfurl like buds in the exact ways we are meant to.

We are startlingly, decadently alive.

Let us remember that. Let us cherish it. Let us hold that knowing closer than close, close to our hearts—and be inspired to honor ourselves in a new way. A downright soulful way.

I want, I wish, I will…

I wish to remember every morning—as the sun streams into my windows with a pale rosy glow and my still-sleepy eyes pop open to greet the new day—

I wish to remember that I am alive.

 

Author: Sarah Harvey

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Editors: Emily Bartran; Renée Picard