It’s all good

 

Hey, Happy Father's day. I'm just chilling in my tent outside, musing, and writing, while my family swirls inside. I keep writing posts, having to let them sit for however long they need to, and then when I feel like they are ripe, I can share them.  If I do an official Father's day post it will probably be not on the day of. As I feel so unconventional.

This is a post I wrote on the eleventh of June this year.

 

Hey,

 It’s real hot outside.

Phew…

And I’m just calibrating.

Recalibrating I guess.

Last evening I got a phone call from my brother who I haven’t heard from in a while. And usually when he calls, he just talks to my mom.

We don’t usually talk… much.

I usually get feeling quite nervous when I talk to him. Because he’s always been quite intellectual, and has always known very well how to play the games in life. And we’ve just grown up in very different timelines.

Anyhow, I picked up the phone and we talked. I made a note to myself to breathe, and calm myself. To not try to be impressive, or anything else. To just float.

And I felt he didn’t feel quite as uncomfortable either.

Though, it’s interesting I found myself wanting to tell him some stories about my mom nearly choking and how terrifying it was. And other things…not to make him feel bad that he wasn’t there, but just to say, oh my gosh, it was scary, and wow, and ouch. And just to say it to someone else, so someone else knows too.

But sometimes, I feel like I hit a wall when I try to express myself, and I’m not sure how to veer round it. Or how to best go through it. And then they too feel strange trying to express themselves.

And this is where my older siblings usually say when one of us too close to the painful bits. “Awe, well, it’s all good.”

At one point, it feels isolating. Saying, “It’s all good.” Right before or after you say something a little bit real, and maybe a little bit raw, and a little bit squichy.

But then…

In some ways, yes, I see my blog, as my “It’s all good. Place.” Too. Or my place where I write down my thoughts, and feelings, and then re-write to find the it’s all good place in all the bits of my life that need a bit of knowing.

I look over it all, comb through it with my heart.

And find the place where it can be all good.

It’s all good. When you see it all with an eye that is in the state of oneness.

A higher perspective.

Yet, before you can get there, it’s not always all good. Because when you’re living it. It can be all painful, and hurty, and depressing, and lonely, and terrifying, and scary, and ugly, and so not all good.

Because the colors you’re seeing are vivid, and close up, and while someone is bent over coughing, and sputtering and you’re wondering if they are going to still be able to breathe.

That moment, it doesn’t feel all good. If you’re there, and you’re with them, and stroking their back, all the while trying to stay calm, and feeling anything but. Because you’re also feeling them, and you’re feeling you. And it an be so overwhelming, seeing things, and being with hurting hearts, and feeling it so deeply as if it is your very own.

The only way to feel your way through it, is to remember the still point where it is all good. And it’s very good to have some space to digest what has happened, and look, and pause, after you’ve been in the thick of things, to feel who you are beyond the current colors on your canvas.

Only when you can really do this, can you feel yourself, and the “it’s all good,” beyond the nows that frighten us.

And so, yes, some part of me, is tired.

And another part, that never ages. Says, it’s just fine. Rainbows and beautiful shamrocks, and little clues, and angels and birds, and all those beautiful things in life are always there, for you to find, and to be found by.

It’s all good.

Yes, the mother holding it all.

Every bit, love. In some form. For you to find, and hold, and keep, and sculpt into your art.

Because your seeing can make it so.

Your knowing can know it so.

Your heart can love it so.

The moment, in all its contrast. There is painting going on. Always.

Beautiful words.

Things to be birthed through the womb of your mouth.

Seeded in the heart.

Beautiful sculpted days.

Beautiful souls.

Birthed.

In the place where it can be all good.

But inbetween.

There is a really good place, where one can share those innermost bits.

And it brings you closer, if the other has known how it has felt to. And still can laugh, and say, how nice it is to be allowed to say, the stories and the heroes journey that takes us through all kinds of states, and adventures.

To the place, where we all started out.

To the all good place.

The alchemical pot of knowing, where we can make a stew.

Of raw things, and real things, and every bit, and turn it into something delicious.