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December 3, 2018

Healing from Trauma can be Beautiful, Too.

I love these moments
When the curtains of the painful past
Part
And I see
With new eyes.

I greet now
With every last part of me.
I am so thirsty
For the thick nectar richness
Of this newness.
It tingles in my toes and rings out in my ears,
I stick out my tongue to taste it,
I breathe it in my lungs.

Oh, how my lungs soar and expand
As I stand tall
And sit deeply
Into my hips and feet.
The past whispers and echoes, a gossamer ghost;
But the more I walk into it,
The more I look at it with the eyes of my heart:
The less it haunts me.
The less that trauma is my life.
The more I become myself.
The more I become something other than a pulsating, raw nerve.

I have substance.
I have form.
I have bones, skin, preferences, likes, and dislikes,
A voice that rings and resounds best in seas of poetry where clarity comes like a bell
And vibrates through my skeleton.
I am not lost anymore.
I not helpless anymore.
I am here.
I am powerful.

And this realization, though it packs a punch of fire,
A thousand ruby sparklers in a mid-July sky,
It is soothing, too.
It melts like water.
As I separate out
The sticky spiderwebs of what used to be
And what is now true.
And I am mostly sweetly surprised
When I look around
And there is so much peace, at least.

There is quiet, like a cozy snowfall.
There is beauty, revealed by the path of pain.
There is the love I created through it all.
I made it.
Yes.
I am not perfect, but I am here.
Anchored in this moment in time.

Ease grows, smooth as butter;
That’s how I am held in this moment:
By the arms of the Great Mother.
So very softly
I am held.
I am calm.
I am powerful.
I am soft.
I am strong.
I am that which a list of adjectives can never explain.
I am a spark of soul, of magic, of wild, incandescent life
That
Never
Dies.

I breathe in, and the sun shines on my cheeks,
My lungs swallow an ocean of breath,
And little by little
I
Am
Free.
More than anything
I
Am
Alive.

My flesh enraptured with the knowing that
I am not meant to be this splintered thing;
I was not always broken.
And yes, in the cracks that the pain made
Salty tears stung,
But wisdom
Rained.

~

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Sarah Harvey  |  265 Followers

author: Sarah Harvey

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