8 F Y R E ' B I R D 8

4.12.20 who i have been, and who i will become, hovering in this present moment like the humming bird i saw quivering outside of my window this morning. humming birds, in their beingness, remind me of joy, joy perhaps at the arrival of spring, or joy for no reason at all but just because.   i’m learning to relax my shoulders. as i’m learning to relax my shoulders, i’m learning to also let go of what is not mine to carry and leave the responsibility of changing others behind. it’s not my responsibility to change how others will navigate this moment, or the next, or how we will even transform society together. it is more about: me, being me, and changing myself, for that is really the only thing i have control over, and if that inspires someone else, me being me, than so it is.   to be on earth in these times. i do feel that i chose to come here for a reason, and i can feel the ancestors hands beckoning, and i feel the weight slide off as i remember bayo’s words: ...

when i came out to my cis-het boyfriend as genderfluid, he asked me what that meant. when i explained it to him, he said: “that’s weird”.   we were driving in the car. he was driving. he quickly looked over at me afterwards, as my face, space, and whole being was impacted by the weight of his statement. horror, pain, and grief erupting through my eyes. tears beginning to rush.   needless to say, i broke up with him. it took me awhile, but that moment taught me who i wanted close to me as i transitioned (and who i didn’t want close to me). it taught me self-care, boundaries, and respect. it tacught me to see how ingrained self-erasure had become for me as a non-binary person, and how low my sense of self-worth was as a result of it. it taught me how deep the pain of many years and lifetimes and generations of erasure feels. i was crying for days after that incident. i didn’t know what was happening to me. enormous grief portals opened in my body. i didn’t have lan...

every day, write. because if you are not writing, here. you are writing somewhere. there are stories being told somewhere, in your being. they happen racing through your head or wake up at the tips of your fingers when dreaming. the ways you happen, and how the world happens with you is important, is important. write, because. it gives you life. it gives you a place to put: everything. it gives you a way to navigate death. the empty page does not judge or hurt you, like sometimes, the thoughts do inside of your own head. or the glances, shrugs, and distracted looks you interpret as signs from others, proving your unworthiness. write, because when you do, you fly. and flying tastes so good to your wings. your wings must remember how to fly, and when you are writing, they do. it is permission. it is promise. it is hope and despair and returning again to a place of origin. it is channeling, it is home-coming, it is discipline and challenge, death and resurr...