In my darkest, tangly places I forget about the light. I forget that life is fluid, not stagnant. I forget that all my learning has garnered sweet wisdom. And I forget to raise my head and heart up, in order to find my way forward.
There’s a certain solace I’ve found in the forgetting. There’s a certain cozy ebb and flow I’ve discovered in the familiarity of doubt and shame. The way I linger, floating in that place that keeps me tethered to fear and the far-off, downward stories I tell myself.
But the coziness eventually turns to restlessness and that part of me that forgets that I can recognize my own shadow cast from the sun taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that there are moments in the morning when I’ve never felt more content and there are certain minutes of the day when the light streams in through the window that casts a dazzling sheen across the entire room and my dreams and plans and schemes are things of beauty and all of the forgetting is something to be grateful for because diving in to the forgetting is the only way to remind myself of what is really true.
Rita the Ruminator