Joy in being

The peepers sounding night songs mysteriously in the distant valley remind me of something, some comfort sent afar. Daffodils have set themselves up in defiance of a predicted cold snap - one peeks straightforwardly from a crack in my bedroom curtain, which billows gently in the night air. The forceful and vigorous awakening of Nature astounds me, who seems to lag behind the upswing with thoughts of sadness and feelings of despair clinging like moss to my shoulders. As a last stop on a strange tour of emotion, I have landed feet-first in a place of bodily self-disgust. As soon as puberty set in, I decidedly felt a stranger in my skin, like I was constantly being betrayed by a strange garment. But maybe it is me, and not my body that has done the betraying. My body is a valiant little heart, dear kidneys, vigorous liver, resilient skin, careful gentle feet, all permeated with the unquenchable drive to live, grow, and regenerate. While it is myself who harbours the angry, sad feelings that desire explosion, ending, giving up.
I can’t seem to understand the origin of this desire to explode life. It seems to haunt my steps, to hang about my mouth ready to start stability quivering. It feels like I’m losing hold on life, then tossing the rest away in angry defiance of how sensitively I perceive the beauty and agony of living.

Today I began to sense a coming reconciliation with change. What I once did so eagerly to the point of blind mad reaction, I’m now feeling at odds with. I wonder as to what degree change is a necessary part of living and experiencing ourselves. Do I threaten the trueness of my existence with changing winds, like a ship bound for port diverted by a swelling gale? It’s my fears I tend to perceive first, that I tend to dream first, the worst capable in a situation, the quickly divergent path down brambled crevices. Last night’s dream was one of these, and I gladly awoke from its throws this morning. A Titan's grip I tend to hold myself fast in, squeezing until gasping tears or brilliant Nature break the hold. Butterflies are crushed more easily, and in this Season of great upheaval, I pray I can find the right balance of hold and release before young beautiful ideas emerge from their patient slumbers. Daring as robins and freshly bloomed daffodils, steady as rising sap and emerging buds, remarkably beautiful as the green triumph of grass. Grant me such trueness, I pray, such joy in being.