MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

"There will come a day when the fear of death will be the favourite joke passed among corpses, and they're already laughing"

Remembering

For months, something kept reminding me to keep forgetting how lovely it was to waltz with God. Tonight, somehow, I didn't remember to forget that answers and a wealth of Sundays are safely set in God.  Tonight I remembered that God is a poet. Tonight I remembered that I am Catholic and that there is an imperative truth that I’m still yet to find and live and be baptized in. Tonight I remembered that I am not God. I am not God. I am not God. Tonight I remembered how much faith my Grandfather had in me. Tonight i remembered my grandfather.

Sitting alone on a Sunday night listening to all it’s well kept secrets my chiffrobe fell apart.There were bottles of vodka, Hennessy and afflictions falling everywhere. There were tears falling everywhere. Sitting in a river of tears I learnt about baptism. Sunday, there is something so sacred and holy about you. There is something so raw and truthful about the way the strength of your silence doesn't hesitate to say " Kerry-Ann you beg too much! You fuck shit up too much!". As I sat alone, on the cold cream tiles bare and lost with all my broken pieces scattered before me I remembered how to heave afflictions up, stare them in the face and come to terms with reality. This Sunday I sat, broken pieces before me sprinkled with salty tears, I sat there and learnt all about how minimum my growth has been. I realized that something in the soles of  my feet insist on dancing backwards and my clumsy heart keeps forgetting how to love and has become far too familiar with hate. Tonight Sunday told me that the struggle is real and that there is nothing comical about it.

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Rambling...1

I had this headache today for a good 8 hours. I have no legit explanations for the cause of this headache but it helped me to sought ought a lot.

Maybe this headache was as a result of the excess of noise that I have been dancing to for quite some time. It’s amazing how we’re always unaware of the dizziness in the moment; never really know when we’ve taken it a bit too far. It’s unnerving that we’re so often out of our element that we never really know when we’re addicted to malice.

I have been wearing my aversions like a good suit on a bad day for weeks now. Painted it in pretty colours and called it me. It really is unsettling that we could be so ugly internally and not be aware of it or not care to fix it.

Justifying your aversions doesn’t make you righteous, you’re still a hater.

It’s important to nurture whatever it is that grants you peace in your day!

You’re lovely my dear!

You’re lovely!

~Kerry-Ann 

― Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”

Most days I feel lost paralleled with an indescribable emptiness 

Reconstruction.

It annoys me that the ones you love the most are so often oblivious to the hurt that they cause you. They can rip your heart out with some of the statements and acts they give life to, without much thought and I’ve never found this quite fair. This is not love. Love is not an interest vested on a one way street where the wind blows north and nowhere else. Love is not a silent heartache or a silent voice. Love is not a “I’ll be here for you, but only sometimes.” kinda thing.

Maybe it’s the way we were raised. The way our heart beats have been synchronized with conformity or maybe it’s the impish whisper of a lie that we can’t change much. And so we relegate our opinions, beliefs and souls never thinking that it would hurt us or those we love. I’m don’t like having people who don’t say what they feel around me. Logging around feelings won’t get you anywhere nor will it have you standing any closer to freedom.

Too many people have disrespected me and I’ve let it slide and I’m learning that doing so is not okay. It is important to say what you feel. Free yourself from the heaviness. Until we do so, until we are free, I think we’ll continue to be prostitutes, always used and discarded without regard for our feelings.

 Love and Freedom to you always

~Kerry-Ann Davis