Growth and healing are not linear processes—neither is coming into your own.
Reflecting on the past few years, life has happened quickly for me in many ways. I have experienced grief and loss, a new life, and new beginnings, as well as a spiritual awakening, ripening, and maturity.
I have let go of some masks I wore and have stepped into my true calling—“my creativity.” This process has been painful and no one prepared me for this.
No one tells you that coming into your own and stripping away the old like a snake shedding its skin is going to hurt like hell. We hear about the flip side, the rosy afterglow of authentic living. We hear only about the end result.
I’m still in this process, and there is a definite ebb and flow. Like a wave that comes and goes.
Therapy has taught me many things and patience is one. I have nurtured and become my own mother to the creative one inside. I have brushed myself off, nurtured, and supported myself to heal—healing the wounds of my inner creative child, allowing this voice to rise up, and allowing the expression of both heart and mind.
The following poem is an intimate personal sharing and offering.
It was a healing and cathartic piece to write. Although this is written in the feminine voice, it is written for everyone.
If you listen closely you may hear the personal, social, and political themes in this poem.
May you be well and find the courage and strength to speak your truth. I know it isn’t easy—slow down, take a breath, and pause before you read the following.
May these words fill you, find you, and speak to your heart.
Father, I am a poet;
I didn’t get to tell you.
Mother, I am more than enough.
Father, the world is changing.
Mother, I do not need a man to increase my worth.
Father, I have silver hair now the colour of the moon; it reminds me of you.
Mother, my face can smile and frown; it is made to wrinkle.
Father, the world is on fire and all I have is words—my offerings.
Mother, I have no jewels, only stars and thunder—nature’s wonders.
Father, I write in the morning and at the end of the day.
Mother, I am free—free to be me.
Father, I am courageous.
Mother, I have a voice.
Father, I beg no pardon for my convictions.
Mother, this moment is all we have.
Father, I remember you.
I sing in the morning and pray at the end of the day.
I have a voice and a song.
Forever a poet until my last breath.
~ FF (“Forever Free”)