Adventures in vulnerability, part 2.

I talk about vulnerability a hell of a lot for someone who finds it really f*cking hard.

This isn’t a follow-on from my previous post, Adventures in vulnerability.

It’s not a neat Segway that takes you from A to B.

Truth be told, I didn’t even read my previous post before writing and publishing this.

Maybe I should’ve done. Maybe this is reckless.

And what.

I am somewhat obsessed with the idea that we are and can be many things.

We can be weak and strong. Helpless and powerful. Whole and lost.

Our emotional and psychological experiences don’t (have to) fit into boxes.

And, truth be told, they rarely do anyway. (See above.)

I’ve never used the phrase ‘truth be told’ before.

That’s a lie.

I probably have done, at some or other point in my life. But I don’t remember doing so. It hasn’t stuck with me. It hasn’t formed part of my personal vernacular, not like context is all or every little helps (thanks Tesco) or any of the other stories — truths — that I tell myself daily, whether consciously or otherwise.

We are but stories. And life is but a series of moments. So much is as yet unwritten, if only we dare to dream.

There is a whimsy to my writing. A joy, a lightness, an irony to my turn of phrase. I was a serious child, and words — with words , even— I learned how to play. And I relish it. And I cherish it. And it makes me feel like me like almost nothing else.

No matter how adrift you are or feel, few things are as grounding as connecting with yourself.

And of course that’s the case; because, so often, feeling adrift is inextricably entangled with feeling — or, dare I say it, being — disconnected from yourself in some way.

You feel ‘off’ because you are ‘off’ — track, kilter, piste. You are flailing because you’re misaligned. Because you’re doing too much, working too hard, trying to force a square peg into a round hole. Because, with the best will in the world, we can’t — and shouldn’t try to — do everything, if only because doing so slowly but surely erodes our ability to do anything.

Something’s (always) gotta give, particularly in situations where we have so much to give.

The body keeps the score.

All we ever had to do — all we ever have to do — is listen.

A reminder, if ever you needed one. Because sometimes (often) I need one, too.

I am forthright and enthusiastic and pained and grappling. I have fire in my eyes and a soft heart and unspoken fears and so much love. And so much love. It’s this that brings me comfort.

That, and the beauty of the world. And our ability to change and transform. And the way the light dapples the trees just so. That moment when ugliness is transformed.

I believe in redemption. I believe in second chances. I believe in holding people accountable. I believe in having the courage to hold up your hands, admit when you’re wrong and apologise. I believe that there is no shame in changing your mind. I believe that life is what we make of it, and that we all have choices about what we do with the cards that we are dealt. I believe in our individual and collective ability to transcend our limitations. To make something beautiful out of what was once just pain. I believe that we are capable of more than we ever dreamed of. And I believe that, all too often, we are afraid of ourselves.

We are afraid of our power.

We are afraid of our possibility.

After all, what would — or could, or might — it mean?

It’s new. It’s dangerous. It’s destabilising.

And it comes with so much responsibility.

When I ask what it would mean to be powerful, what I’m really asking is, what would it mean to be free?

I’m not talking about external power. I’m talking about self-mastery.

And, to me — for me — this is what bubbles up. Instinctively, intuitively, no holds barred:

It sounds fucking terrifying.

It sounds revolutionary.

It sounds like work that I want to devote my life to.

It sounds like a calling.

It sounds like a road with no end.

Yet as long as I accept the lack of ‘destination’, I will be at peace.