In a few days, I’ll be bidding the mystical Kiwi coastlines farewell as I set off with my collective memories as wake behind me.
I’ve spent some of the time pondering, thinking. This time on the road has forced me to reckon with myself. The women I’ve been reading tell me to look at my shadows. I’ve tried to spend time with the interpretation of this and practicing what this means to me. It has taken years to arrive at this moment, and I want to be able to appreciate the work it asked of me, and the story I can now strive to tell. I am embracing the mistakes, the imperfections, the cutouts, the fallen embers, the broken glass.
I believe there are many lifetimes we all lead even that lie within just one life here. I have learned that I am happier in an equation of subtraction, not addition. How many layers of social conditioning do I have the ability to shed? What can I unlearn here? What have I reigned in that I can now push to the surface to unleash? How can I shift into simplifying my days? How can I consume, spend, and hold on to less? I have always been someone that scans and purges my life regularly. We are so often asked what we are doing, and what we will be doing next with the time we are given. My happiest moments have been spent appreciating the moment and reminding myself of what I am not doing. The process of sifting and weeding out what has not worked for me helps me remember that the beauty of my life’s work lies in its imperfection. There is beauty in the way the sea cyclically carves out fleeting details.
I try to zoom out, to consciously feel myself thinking survival to big picture.
Tales from my childhood allow me to discern my deepest nature. I sprinted into the sea as an infant, fearless.
Some time ago, I thought it would be a beautiful thing to walk on a secluded, miles long expanse of sand. This was that day. Thank you, universe.
I collect my pack, toss it on my stable, yet bereaved shoulders, and remember those that have lifted me up in the past. I feel thankful for every experience that brought me to this moment. This cyclical nature of time, of the sea and the Moon, and of the seasons are no different than the seasons that comprise my body and mind. What are my offerings? What rituals have unknowingly risen from my practices? What are my gifts and limitations? I have so many questions. All I ask is to be given the opportunity to fail as often as is necessary for me to express the fullest version of myself, and tell the story.